I flick a match to light it and nurture the flame with my breath.
The match I set to light a pile of dry paper scraps
in the middle of the hallway, indoors where the fire will scorch the floor
and leave sooty marks on the ceiling.
It doesn’t matter,
scars of fire are expected,
when a baby comes.
I build the fire up taller, add more to the pile.
I add cloth to burn clean, careful not to smother the flames.