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To Janice, These Many Years Later (poem)

By rg cantalupo

Dear Janice,
There was something I never told you, something I should've said, but never did.
I don't know if it would've changed anything. You know how crazy I was, and how I could never talk about the war.
But it was you, my love, you, Janice, who saved me, you, who kept me alive.
Not my M-16.
Not the crucifixion I wore around my neck.
Not Mike, nor Lonny, nor Lee.
But you.
Your photograph. The one at the beach. The one with you wearing white pants, and a salmon-colored sweater, and your face smiling back at me, so, so beautiful.
I would take you out from beneath my helmet liner, unfold the plastic bag that protected you from the sweat, mud,
and blood, and imagine you were there, sitting next to me as I rest on the jungle trail; you, whispering to me to get
up after a rocket attack wounded half our squad.
You were there when I called the napalm strike on a pagoda and children came running out in flames; your eyes
told me I was still the same person even though I knew I wasn't and never could be again.
You were there when I was bleeding out waiting for the medevac to come; you, looking down on me from the dome
of my helmet like a loving god; you, telling me to stay awake, to breathe, to not to give up, to not to die, to not to
leave you.
I know it is too late to tell you this.
We have lived out our lives.
Alone. Separate. Long ago given up on the promises we made.
I loved you, and that love saved me, and I need you to know that.
I wish I still had your photograph.
I wish I knew where you were.
I wish I could say this, just once more, my love, to your eyes.

—rg cantalupo