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By Natalie Morales

My heart’s like an
accidental dose of ecstasy
swallowed right as a pair of sand-soaked jeans
comes into view on the right-hand side of the freeway.
My heart’s like a
vacuum full of vomit.
My heart’s like a
misplaced modifier
in the last paper he graded
before committing suicide.
My heart’s like the
middle of that centrifuge
the Japanese used to torture P.O.W.’s.
No, actually, my heart’s not like that,
but my heart is like
the first prickling wind of winter,
an abbreviated porno,
the gradation of sunset,
an amorphous zoo lion.

My heart’s like a dreamt poem
forgotten upon waking.

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