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Henziger’s Beast

John T. Hitchner

Henziger’s beast stalked him.
It prowled when kids wanted to know
about the numbers on the inside
of his arm, above the wrist.

He told them.
They deserved to know
about the POW camp he was taken to
and how the numbers were inked into his skin.

Henziger liked the kids.
Sometimes he kicked a soccer ball with them,
but he walked away and wiped bubbles from his mouth
when the thud of foot on leather flashed boots into heads.

“I remember you,” the beast grinned at him in the mirror
when Henziger pulled his lips back from his teeth
and saw the dark spots on his gums.

What would it be like to wear a white shirt again
Henziger wondered when he opened his closet.
He owned only one white shirt.
He had never worn it after he came home.
The shirt didn’t fit him now,
the sleeves too long, his chest too thin.

The beast watched Henziger
when he emptied ashes from the coal furnace
and when he swept the floor dust and grime
into the dust pan and shook the dirt
into the trash.

When trains rumbled through town,
he remembered the press of bodies in the freight car,
the stink of shit and piss,
and the fallacy of showers to cleanse skin.
When he was liberated,
Henziger imagined he would never be clean again.
He cried to be clean, but even on spring days



when the sun created shadows on the lawn,
he remembered the forest
beyond the camp’s wires and towers.
Metal mocked the tall trees.

Now, Henziger thinks of groceries to buy,
meals to make,
and headlines of another war growing old.
He feels older than those headlines.
He sees wheels within wheels,
fires within fires.
He knows the beast will soon slouch
toward another victim.

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