In the interval between winter storms,
I walk into Loring Park
in search of a moment to claim.

As I make tracks on what may,
or may not, be the pedestrian path,
I nearly trip on a spherical object

covered in snow. I brush it clean
with my glove—a diving helmet
made of copper and brass.

So many questions
I can’t answer. It looks so old,
predating Jacque Cousteau,

even Jean Painlevé.
No seahorses to study
in the ice-covered pond.

I drop to the frozen ground,
place the found object in my lap
and wait to be transported

to the glorious underwater wreck
of sister creatures escaping
the burden of pregnancy.

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