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Hello Mr. Magazine - - CONTENTS - Noah Michel­son

Lately, I keep think­ing back to when you told me you were almost cer­tainly taken that late sum­mer night when you were rid­ing your bike through Bush­wick and saw that funny, fizzing light dan­gling above you in the sky — and then its sud­den, de­lib­er­ate propul­sion, and then its hope­ful dive. I don’t know how they held you when they first held you, or what flooded through you when their trac­tor beam hit you, if you re­sisted when they held your breath for you, or if you only no­ticed how blue and beau­ti­ful and ter­ri­ble the earth fi­nally seemed as it shrank be­neath you. I don’t know where they took you when they took you, which icy planet they flew to, or how many light years it took you, or if, im­pa­tient to make their way inside of you, they pulled their ship over and parked in the mid­dle of all that im­per­fect black noth­ing­ness and im­me­di­ately turned their at­ten­tion to you. I don’t know what it feels like to be inside of you, or the in­ter­ga­lac­tic pre­ci­sion of the tools it would take, or the mess it would make break­ing into you, or how still you begged your heart to stay, or if you found your­self pray­ing or cry­ing or singing as they made them­selves at home in the few clean holes you couldn’t keep closed. I don’t know why they took you when they took you, or where you went to, or what you went through — I only know if I were them and sud­denly you were mine, I would never

give you back.

Poem by Noah Michel­son Il­lus­tra­tion by Tom McQuaid

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