Darkrooms
It’s all a matter of focus, f-stop.
In high school photography class
we’d stand for hours in darkrooms
hands swirling the chemical vats,
summoning ghosts. Infrared
bulbs hung from the ceiling
and the door had a porthole
like a submarine. Inside
we wore protective goggles,
white smocks stained with Kool-Aid-
red developer. We’d hang
our photographs to dry, and the next day
usher them out into the officious
blaze of the classroom for critique.
I liked hiding in there, making friends
with darkness. It helped me prepare
for much darker rooms that would come later.
.
Father’s Day
My daughter reminds me it’s Father’s Day
here in Italy. She says, “I’ll bake you a cake
with mom. Or maybe make a tiramisù.”
“I’d like that,” I say. And I can’t remember
the last time I celebrated Father’s Day
with my own father. I was so young.
He was so young.
© Marc Alan Di Martino
Marc Alan Di Martino is a Pushcart-nominated poet, translator and author of the collection Unburial (Kelsay, 2019). His work appears in Baltimore Review, Rattle, Rust + Moth, Tinderbox, Valparaiso Poetry Review and many other journals and anthologies. His second collection, Still Life with City, will be published by Pski’s Porch in 2021. He lives in Italy.
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