Sam Thayn
The Many Faces of ______
 

I saw you in a field of yellow flowers. You were sweeping and you were curtsying. You bit your lip and I felt the sharpness of it. You were an angel.
 
I saw you at the top of a mountain. It was terribly cold. My fingers were laid out in rows in the snow in the morning. When I reached the top a light burst and you lifted a green curtain off the peak. A small circus sang in your hand.
 
I saw you in the Silver City, laid out for burial. You held a dagger over your breasts. I knelt at your side. I put my hand at the stone lip and overturned you.
 
I saw you in the parking lot outside the wedding. You gave me a prescription. You came to see me everyday. I kicked you out when anyone else came over. You were a peach.
 
I saw you in the passenger’s seat of your car. Wrapped in arms. A piano in the backseat. I was wearing my slacks.
 
God forgive me.  

 

 

 

 
 

 



The Death of Fauntleroy
 

Fauntleroy gave it up on a February morning cold as new galoshes. The month like a dark egg with light shining through. He gave it up sleeping. But first a final dream pushed down the veins in his brain like a clot.
 
A girl with hazel eyes and long hair, curling past her shoulders, past her feet, past his fingers envined him.
 
A wedding dress hung that no one had ever seen. She sewed it in the dark at great personal cost.
 
A trail of rosebuds outside a house winding to a message no one came out to see. A cat’s eye blinked at the moon.
 
Now he made a fist and felt the clot in the heat of his palm, in a thudding at his fingertips. He put them together as if in prayer. The green curve of a garden hose. He steepled his hands there, against the ceiling wall, and asked a question. This is that question:

 

 

 
 

 



Putting Things Down
 

I peopled the world with danger and long red socks. I put comets at street corners and camels in the city windows, camels with long eyelashes and generous humps and cheery dispositions. I drew bricks across the countrysides that sometimes cobbled themselves into homes where smoke sighed out of the chimneys and lovers hung laundry and swept steps. I put clouds in their mouths and a long thin needle between their eyes. I put the heavens in their stomachs so they’d always be full and I took away fire so the nights were dark. And then I spun the world so hard they couldn’t stand, they could only collect in corners and cry and love each other, needles and all. When they died, I finally slept again.



About Sam Thayn

Sam Thayn is an MFA student in Creative Writing at Brigham Young University in Utah. His work has been published in Inscape: A Journal of Literature and Art and elsewhere.