Some Things I Still Can't Tell You: Poems

by Misha Collins

For West and Maison, May you grow happy and strong. You are loved more than any silly book could ever explain.

I see her in the sundress that I bought,

“Please, God, let me have Built this home strong enough.”

I tell her that now they say To get outside but that I’m glad I got to see her hips and Shapely silhouette from behind.

When we lean in to nuzzle, Blinded in collapsing cotton folds Of blue knit tent, We bump foreheads Before finding lips.

You said last night, “What does it mean? That you love me?” And I’m not really sure.

All I know Is that without you I am lost.

“I will always feel this way about you. I will never not love you.”

When I was learning to act And needed to cry for a scene, I would often imagine the unbearable emptiness Of a life without you.

“I write to shake you, my dear readers, And wake you from your slumber, And show you a new way!”

the score has stuck. I always think, I’m drifting too much in my head.

But here, rewriting old poems By a window at my desk, I have to say: that passing grade— The dreamer’s C— It’s good enough for me.

We could turn our bodies outdoors, Feel the warm rain on our skin, And watch the skies Open for all of us.

I only wish I knew What I wanted me to be.

“friendship always as beautiful as a flame.”

MEN IN WOODS

when we skinny-dipped in a shallow stream, We noticed, each in the other’s body, That our grown-man bellies didn’t match our Boyish downhill jogs.

I was four, I’ve been parent to my little world, Taking care of mom and brother, Taking pains not to Rub anyone the wrong way Or make them feel bad, No matter how bad I feel.

I freeze, then squeeze back And whisper, “I love you.”

She tells everyone who visits that I’ve been on TV And published poems. It nettles at me.

I lit candles, but when she started to say,

In a stagelike whisper, That I built this fine home, with its high skylights, I halted her with a singsong teenage “Mom!”

Sitting next to me, She told me she wished we had a Better connection And that she no longer thought my wife wasn’t

Good enough But still hoped she would make me a father someday.

*This is the first poem I ever wrote.

Walking around the car, I make my own wish That I won’t wake up someday and wonder where my life went, That I will somehow find my way to happiness.

I cried many times rereading the pages about her. My love for her will always remain.

And finally, thank you, West and Maison. Some days I feel that my whole purpose in being was to share this life with you. Watching you grow is my greatest happiness.