Get my back?

My hands shake.

I tell myself,

like a brother,

like a friend,

just a friend,

but it doesn’t matter.

Her skin feels smooth

in my hands.

I let myself do it slowly,

a little embarrassed.

She trusts me to do this.

She is aware of every moment.

She’s not afraid of what I’m feeling.

It doesn’t change how she treats me.

Later, after we swim,

we talk about characters

from the stories we write.

Elysium, she-warrior,

driven out of her

village as a young girl,

captured, made a servant,

learned to fight

in the gladiator pits,

until one day,

with the help of Thall,

she escaped.

Jorge’s House

Later that week

Jorge invites us to dinner,

even my mother.

It’s just him and his mom,

in a one-bedroom house

near the Bolinas school,

through redwood groves.

His house is

filled with cooking pots

and yellow plates

on the red walls.

Over the fireplace,

black-and-white photos

of men on horseback,

and a well-dressed couple

from long ago.

On a long wooden table,

his mom

is placing

silver plates

with different foods

in circle patterns,

yellow cheese,

a pile of almonds,

some cold fish like the herring

my father eats,

some meat on skewers.

There are several plates

of purple, black, and green olives.

My mother walks

right to her,

places her hand on the fabric

of her long blue skirt,

and starts in

on the beauty

of the fabric,

the smell of the food.

Jorge tells us to have some

sopes. Lisa does.

I eye the bread and almonds,

but I stay with ham and slabs of cheese.

At dinner,

Lisa pours some wine in her cup

when no one is looking.

Jorge helps to translate

when his mother speaks too fast

and her words roll from English

to Spanish and back again.

For dessert,

his mother holds a plate

with two hands,

sets it on the center of the table.

Brazo de reina,

she mouths out loud,

a rolled-up cake

filled with cream

surrounded by fruit

that look like hand grenades.

Cherimoya, Jorge says.

Ice cream fruit.

And it is,

like ice cream on my tongue.

I take a bite of the cake,

one flaky, delicious bite,

taste the sugar and vanilla cream.

For a moment, I want to eat it all,

but then Jorge’s mother

tells a joke about Jorge

being the tallest boy since first grade,

and Lisa can’t stop laughing,

and then I can’t stop laughing,

and I put down my fork.

I feel good.

One bite

is just

enough.

Saint George

After dinner

the grown-ups drink

thick-smelling coffee,

and we linger near the door,

eager to go out

under the stars.

Wait, wait, wait,

his mother calls,

pulls us in

to the couches

to tell us the story

of how Jorge

is actually

Saint George.

Jorge covers his eyes

with long, dark-brown fingers.

He doesn’t want to hear the story.

At his church,