It has been the summer of the lime.
They have been in inexhaustible supply,
always a cluster of them waiting
in the bottom of a fruit bowl
in whosever kitchen we were in.

They mostly went into drinks, mostly squeezed
into triple sec after the tequila was gone
to make Marge, our placid, degenerate Margarita
with the crazy left out, whose magic ingredient
was ice cubes in the shape of little crosses.

Over the summer the price of limes dipped and rose
as it always does. One day cheap, the next day gouging.
As many as we consumed, we remained detached
from their volatile fortune. We were steady like the heat.

Mannequins, no matter how detailed,
are betrayed by their flat, plastic skin.

Real skin has thin translucent layers
the light shines into, gathers evidence
of the shyness you are hiding,
and then shines back out again,
carrying your rosy blush into plain sight.

Milk is the same, as are some stones.
Jade, the green stone emperors’ favour,
is one, and, no jeweller, I discovered late
it has a sister that is pink and pale
as the most tender flesh and shares
the same translucence.

You already knew this, and more.
“Jade gates,” you told me,
“are opened with a jade key.”