On
rainy days we used to sneak behind
the shed at
recess where the
snails would rise
to
breathe, flooded from their
burrows underneath
the rotted boards. We paused
to wonder at their sudden strangeness –
unlikely meld of sea-born shell and
earth-locked slug, antennae probing
forth, erratic trails of goo – then grinning
stomped them all. Ourselves, we
never would have known the satisfying
crunch of shell beneath our soles – you must
be taught to hate –
had not two older boys, immeasurably wise,
initiated us one cold December day.