Is poetry political?

THE CAFÉ OWNER
by Nathalia Blanca Perozo

A salt and pepper haired man takes
twelve deep drags of a menthol cigarette.
he cranes his arm up then down
directing melodies and tuning waves.

Gliding up the plastic frames
of my glasses, I make his legs
a kaleidoscope of tiny hairs
and veins for my amusement.

He is Apache how he leans aging
in plain view, after half a carafe
of wine I ride the lines of his frown
to somewhere more comfortable.

The raid of daylight turns
him into a healer,
chaperone of the scabs
my eyes are barking.

TWO NEW YORK HOTELS
By Nathalia Blanca Perozo

A banker, a drunk, and a playwright
were my escorts for the night. The playwright
carried the most fame, and thus had our prime
ears tucked into his pocket. This warranted revenge,
I stuck a bone into his side.

In the kitchen an Englishman was cooking French.
Parmesan ice cream and scallions the size of coins
were served by waiters instructing us to love like our tails fly.
Uninspired, we finished our meals in eleven bites
and ordered cocktails named after motorbikes.

After the lights were dimmed, elderly

CLINT EASTWOOD'S GIRL- A Salvation Dream
by Nathalia Blanca Perozo

I imagine jumping out my window
and cut holes into my knit sweater
to enable an off the shoulder smile
where Clint Eastwood would love me

under a cold, pressing harness
the feeling of a bed
strapped to a motor,
appeals to the iron slouched on his hips.

I’m a horse adorned with wire wreaths
that face in his direction,
tribes from my body
that yearn to ride his stubble.

I rub against the fabric on the walls
sensing death
as my necklace bangs against his chest,