Near the river, horsetail grew—
ancient breathing straws, hollow,
snapping clean at the joints.

I don’t know who started it—
likely my brother—
but we made a physical rite of strength
after sneaking down to the river one Sunday.

We whipped each other’s legs with the stalks,
curing our weakness against pain.
Wetted, the sting turned sharp as a lash.

What began as a secret pilgrimage
quickly went awry
as we stayed too long by the water,
beating each other breathless,
peeling into tears and laughter,
howling that I wasn’t ready
when fear took hold.

Yes, we were caught.
Yes, we were forbidden
to bring any horsetail home.

Welts on our legs,
a little blood.
A rather serious game of fun.

We forged camaraderie that day—
a secret initiation
born of feral childhood chaos.

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