In the beginning, the hearth was a violet yawn,

        a velvet mouth swallowing the dusk, and the dusk, being dramatic, wept amethyst into the ashes.

 

Hestia, lavender lemon, tended the flame and shushed

         the universe: "Please. Some of us are trying to glow."

 

Prometheus tucked fire in his pocket and WHOOSH

         went his trousers. From the wardrobe malfunction, a nebula: plum. orchid. bruised-sunset rose. a thousand

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chimneys sighing iris smoke. I am small. I am whiskered.

     I have nibbled a door into the wall between my mess and found them sharing a bed of moonlit heather, snoring like

 

violets. In the parlor, in order of dignity: Zeus, a loser having

      a midlife crisis. Medusa, who does the nails of every star.

The Fates, knitting the nights with tinsel. Me, a

 

crumb in the night sky. The tapestry goes soft, plum-drunk,            glorious. The tapestry goes soft, plum-drunk, glorious. The tapestry goes soft, plum- The tapestry goes soft. The tapestry

 

goes. Do not worship me. Worship the ember, that small

          mulberry heart curled in the ash, dreaming in lilac of becoming someone else. Tell no one my name. I was never

 

here. I am only the crumb trail, crumb crumb crumb crumb crumb crumb crumb crumb...

 

leading you home to the first glow explosion.