Louise Marie DelSanto


Louise Marie DelSanto Poems

1. She Once Had This Dream 2/9/2006
2. The Woman In The Second Bed 2/10/2006
3. Black Silk Scarf 2/24/2006
4. My Father, The Wardley Toad 3/16/2006
5. I Thought Of Dorothea 3/19/2006
6. Under A Spring Moon 3/29/2006
7. To My Manny 11/28/2005
8. Remembrance 1/29/2006
9. Last Walk Of Life 11/28/2005
10. Encouraging Aidan 2/6/2006
11. Last Will And Testimony 11/11/2005
12. Fairy Gods 11/11/2005
13. Snow Princess 11/28/2005
14. On The Coldest Of Nights 12/1/2005
15. Revanche 12/3/2005
16. Gemma's Bar 11/28/2005
17. Winter/1962 11/28/2005
18. Nobody's Home 11/28/2005
19. Seduction 12/3/2005
20. Smoke Rings 11/12/2005
21. The Dedication Of Evening 11/28/2005
22. The Dusk Of Heroes/4th Floor Rehab 12/4/2005
23. Wondering About You 1/12/2006
24. Twilight Concert 1/14/2006
25. Underlined 12/21/2005
26. Lidia 12/26/2005
27. My Brother, The Anole 1/20/2006
28. Post Mortem 1/26/2006
29. Talking Back To Arizona 1/26/2006
30. January Dream 1/29/2006
31. Tao Sonnet 1/29/2006
32. October Silk 11/28/2005
33. The Sponge In The Sand 5/3/2006
34. A Birthday Poem For Roxann 5/15/2006
35. Absence 3/6/2007
36. And Now, You 3/20/2008
37. Happy Birthday, Adriana 6/16/2008
38. Last Thoughts 6/26/2008
39. On Saying Goodbye 8/15/2008
40. Impressions 11/10/2008
Best Poem of Louise Marie DelSanto

The Women Who Steal Married Men

The women who steal married men are all named Diane
or Kathy. They wake up in the night in Baby Dolls,
sexy and steamy beneath acetate sheets,
thinking of hot tubs.

It is always smoky where they work.
Under cashmere sweaters, their nipples
appear erect. They wear tight jeans because
vaginitis doesn't mean anything to them.

On their nails, little hearts.
When they walk, the scent of perfume.
When the wind blows, hair not moving,
hairspray clinging to oversprayed whisps.
Big hair rules sex toys.

It is the night that moves them. ...

Read the full of The Women Who Steal Married Men

A Woman In Baquba

A woman in Baquba lost her
brothers yesterday, shot to death
by gunmen, the paper said.

Her blood-stained dress is what
she grips at, her head thrown back
to scream the grief.

Cement, hot and dusty, below her

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