when he was nine,

at a prayer meeting

in the glow of the stained glass

Jorge placed his hand

on the purple shoulder

of a man bent over in pain,

a heart attack, or

a broken heart.

He offered a prayer,

spoke in a voice,

they say,

that was not his own,

and when it was over,

the man stood up

in perfect health,

his knees soaked

in tears and sweat.

They say that

Jorge’s was the voice

of the Holy Ghost.

They say that the room,

from the altar to the door,

grew wild with

yellow and green

light, and flecks of gold dust

filled the air.

Lisa looks at me.

Real gold? I ask.

Jorge smiles shyly,

shrugs like he can’t believe

it happened either.

Shhh, my mother

tells us to quiet down,

sips her coffee.

They say

that day that Jorge’s

legs grew longer.

That’s why he’s so tall.

Jorge presses his legs close

together like he’s

trying to hide them.

When word got out,

the church fathers

met over seven Sundays,

and finally they

made him a local saint.

We look at my mother.

She shifts in her seat.

Beautiful story, she says,

her face warm,

her body relaxed.

Like the midrash

your grandpa tells.

I love it.

When the story ends,

we walk outside and look toward

the forests on the hills,

make plans to hike Bolinas Ridge

before the summer ends.

10 Pounds

By the end of June

I’ve lost 10 pounds.

A bag of rice,

a bowling ball,

a cat,

three big bottles

of soda.

My shorts are looser,

and I can fit two whole fingers

between the waistline

and my body.

At lunch,

my mother hands me a bag

of veggie “pork” rinds,

sour cream and onion.

I eat them all.

Lisa and I

sit in our part of the gallery

sculpting trolls.

We try to teach Jorge

how to do it,

our hands coated in clay.

By now they have

driftwood bases,

shells and dried sticks,

rocks and bark.

Even when I sit,

my shirt feels loose.

Loose.

Something, for once, fits.

Mitzvot

My mother puts her hand on my shoulder,

reminds me

that pretty soon

I will need to

think about meeting

with the rabbi again.

My bar mitzvah is in the fall;

I’m already so late.

I need to prepare:

a. Ask Questions

b. Study Hebrew

c. Do Mitzvot

I remember, just before we moved,

my grandma’s Brooklyn

apartment, the smell

of oily latkes and candle wax.

It’s late, and I am sitting on

my father’s knee,

stacking four quarters,

knocking them down,

stacking them again.

They talked like grown-ups,

the low hum of my grandfather’s

voice, each word half-full

of breath and accent.

They started to argue about

my bar mitzvah,

where it will be,

when it will happen,

and I felt my father

shift in his chair until

I finally slid down

and sat on the floor