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.”