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.