No Surprise Gladioli

There are no amber lockets
bought on a whim to match
the colour of her hair,
no duck egg nursery walls,
no easy chair. Not when
you want to open her face.
There are no giggling tumbles
into hay-strewn barns,
no illnesses nursed,
no in-jokes,
no knee-bending. Even for play,
just lunatic urges to dissassemble
the maternal smile with steel
as she nestles you in her swellings.
You don't get as far as Ovaltine,
served in twin cups, piping
in a queen-sized bed.
There are no rings exchanged,
no surprise gladioli
thieved from the city gardens.
Under skirts, no soft joy.
From her Vesuvius
no warmth, no sap.
You daren't. At most you trace
zigzags over veins, plan goodbyes.