I love to write, from screen plays to stage plays to poetry. Here are a few of my favorite poems!


i will fall in love with the director

who paints me in rows of negatives

who squares the roundness of my chin in his fingers

and works his hands around the hem of my skirt in the back row of the indie theater

we find our love story at the nine after nine in midtown

our romance will play out in dark rooms and the dusty light of a projector

i will love the way his glasses catch the curls of his hair 

i will love the way golden hour plays in the hazel flecks of his eyes

i will love the notes he writes in the margins of moleskin notebooks

and the long-stemmed rose wrapped in grocery store paper

the rumpled collar under his burlywood sweater

the way he takes his coffee and the way 

he doesn’t laugh when i order something sweet at the bar

but he does laugh when i take a sip from his glass and scrunch my nose

and he will love the way i undercook pancakes

and the way i kiss the freckle under his eye

but on a rainy sunday afternoon he will tell me

too loudly and under his breath

that he wished i didn’t talk so much during movies

and the silence will cut us in half.

i will fall in love with the painter

with rainbow crust on the cuff of her overalls

with uneven pigtails, the left one is always higher

and it bothers me but she likes the way i fix the tie

and we will meet each other’s ink-stained hands in the park

and it will be spring and my eyes will well up

and she will ask me if i’m crying and i’ll tell her no, no,

it’s just the allergies, but a week later i will be really crying

and she will rub her thumb under my lashes and leave a streak of green

i will love the complicated way she laces her shoes

and the pomegranate lip balm she keeps in her back pocket

i will love the nicknames she has for me

and how she knows when to use them

and how she remembers my favorite colors are not blue, not purple

but periwinkle, lavender, indigo

and she will love when i sing too loudly in the car

and never offer to drive so i can curate the playlist

and how i insist on taking her photograph when the sky is right

until the day she tells me i’m holding up traffic

i’m pinching the back of her shirt between my thumb and forefinger.

i will fall in love with the musician,

when i am buzzing on vodka soda at a house party

and i catch them eyeing an acoustic guitar leaning against a bookshelf

and they are wearing an oversized flannel from a secret thrift store

and they smell a little like pine trees smoking cigarettes

but they taste like cologne on the fire escape

i will love the way they tease me, they way our words fit together like jigsaw pieces

i will love the box dye stains in the bathtub and how creatively

they stack takeout containers next to the recycling bin

and i will love the way they sing like the moon is always full

and the way they absentmindedly tangle knots into my hair

and the way their eyelids flutter when they practice in our living room

and they will love how i always let them win at monopoly

(it doesn’t matter that i never learned how to play)

and remember to pack towels when we visit the beach

but one day i will notice the chipped coffee mug on the counter

and the water stain they left on the dining room table

and i will see the smile squint its way out of their eyes

from the back row of a bookstore in the village

and i will let the bell ring on my way out.

one day, in five years or ten,

on a sidewalk or in a café, without much warning,

i will love myself, from beginning to end.


to the girls on the uptown train at one in the morning in matching denim jackets
the way you wrapped yourselves around each other’s sticky fingers
took the whistle out of my kettle and i so badly wanted to watch
blonde ponytail and black braids intertwine like lanyards at summer camp
and i’m a hypocrite who sneers at the wine-soaked men who leer at me from across the 6
but when two women with gold cheeks and rose-painted lips smile
the way i imagine venus would smile at aphrodite
i raise my glass to the kind of new york love that’s simple,
that’s frozen fingers sharing a glove
the kind that’s young,
that’s stealing grease off each other’s tongues
and counting stoplights in the back of a taxi cab.
that’s stealing scraps of stargazing from the patches of sky that are too dark to remember your name by.
and i’ll raise my glass to the roses strewn over the sidewalk in front of my apartment building,
to the bouquet split under high heeled boots
buds as black as those empty spaces on the horizon
to the trail of heart break like hansel and gretel in the woods
to the kind of new york love that’s complicated,
that’s your heart beating out of rhythm.
losing the moonlight in your eye at the bottom of your coffee cup.
a well-worn sweater dangling over a fifth floor windowsill,
when i moved to the city i felt thousands of drops of blood in my veins
i split myself open and poured over the bowery,
the brooklyn bridge,
a coffee shop in midtown with a bookcase in the back corner
i breathed in poetry with all the cliche of my youth.
love is simple in spring.
but even when i burned my fingers in a snowstorm,
when i sweat out of my skin in a harlem shoebox,
when i killed a mouse, when i killed a roach, when i killed the parts of myself i once knew
i felt the kind of love that sinks into an indigo evening,
that drinks in a goldenrod sunset,
that dreams cigarette smoke and bucket drums.
i’ll raise a glass to new york,
in and out of love.


when michelangelo first met david

he saw two pairs of eyes through a wall of marble

the rest had to be chiseled away,

beat and broken and torn down to find the life on the other side.

i am carving a life, brick by brick.

i am carving a life out of palm fronds

and honey comb on good bread

and the strawberries we got from the farmer’s market yesterday

and lines of sunlight that fall through the blinds and land on my book

swilling whiskey in a neighbor’s driveway

the beach at night, when everything is quiet and nothing is,

taking wrong turns in a neighborhood in burbank

the garden center and dirt on my forearm

drinking tea under a tree that is not a cherry blossom, i don’t know what it is

dice games and sangria

an army jacket bought from a flea market

iced latte from the coffee shop that opened downtown

crystals on my night stand

face masks from koreatown

sushi from that place we like

one day, when we live together

when i get a new job

when we can buy the couch in the color we like

burnt sienna, no, olive green

when i can hang another painting on the wall

the one of the girl holding a pomegranate

she’s got it stuck between her fingers

when i buy a car

a bug, probably,

powder blue or butter yellow

with a silly bumper sticker on the back

i want to be a silly bumper sticker person.

by fingernail by toothpick by cheese knife

i am chiseling away at a future i didn’t know i’d get the chance to look in the eye.

i will see his lungs, his chest, 

i will lift him by the chin

i will kiss him on the mouth

i will hold him by the heart.