In the Darkroom
You clamped the negative and the blank sheet
into the enlarger, mysterious
with dials, right hand working the wands
that let just enough light
fall on the naked page for the features to ghost,
perfect, from the developer
before you slid them into the sour fixative,
pinning them with rubber tongs
until they would remain forever, all of us bathed
in ghoulish red, lit from within.
Devon Balwit writes her poems on a laptop in Portland, OR, precariously perched on a stack of books in front of her small window onto the world.