Magdalena Kamphausen (18)
moments and miles
Honorable Mention in the Hips Contest
tinny eighties pop blares over the speakers as you swing, swing, swing closer to me
your sun-streaked zags of hair turned icy in the pulsing blue light,
a grin of delight stretched across your face
when you catch of glimpse of my flushed cheeks
my skin burns and splits where your callused fingertips graze it
i want for nothing more than for your hands to snake their way along my body
our one-two-three-four layers of clothing one-two-three-four layers too many
and suddenly i vanish when your hands find my hips
i am young again, barbie dolls spilled pink across my bedroom floor
plastic pastel shoes litter the ground and i am wondering why the princess’s form is so smooth in my hands—why my chest isn’t as full and my tummy isn’t so flat;
but i tug a ball gown onto her and then my biggest concern is where her other sparkly stiletto has gone
i am little still, running after the other girls in gym class, when suddenly it is time for dodgeball and a pit has formed in my stomach
oh no, i think, not this again, as one by one by one the athletic girls—the skinny girls, i remind myself—are no longer standing next to me and i am the only one left, the big girl, not good enough to keep up with the rest
i am foolish here, not old enough for the real world but too far gone for fairytales,
when my favorite class, my english class, becomes my worst nightmare—
the soccer boys have tag-teamed and wrangled me defenseless—
one of his pink hands hands far far too low on my hip as he reads me dirty poetry meant to excite not fright;
while his partner watches so our overworked tired-out teacher never hears my cry
i am playing dumb now, twirling long blonde hair tightly round my finger
wishing my body felt like mine in a uniform that just seemed too tight, too red, not quite right
because i stick out like a sore thumb next to the girls with visible ribs and pierced noses,
hair dark and eyes even darker yet
so i line my lids with kohl and hope the boy in my history class doesn’t notice i am pretending, primping, priming, only to eat my lunch alone
and suddenly i remember when your hands find my hips
my heart leaps and i fear you see me completely,
a hardened mask laid bare in glassy eyes and bright red ears,
yet i want for nothing more than your smoke to choke my gaze, my almost-tears
but then your hand slips, and in a rush i move it back, slowly, smoothly, where it belongs,
my clammy hands sure and steady—despite that pesky twinkle in your eye—
and i know you have seen me, but you choose to stay
stay, despite the hips that hold me both a moment and many miles away from you
awakening
how was i supposed to know that you would send me ablaze?
you see, i didn’t realize you were the one who smoked me out until i talked about you with a friend the way i talked about the hundred million galaxies spiraling up beyond me, beyond us
you, who walked with jangling bones and broad shoulders,
you, bouncing along like the beatles were always blaring in your beautiful brain
you, with hair that was all spiky sunshiny edges, like pure gold in the sunset glow
you, with bright smiles and calico sky eyes, lit me up like no one before
i will never forget the first time we connected, all wide eyes and grazing hands and bitten lips and tanned skin and windblown hair
your thigh pressed against mine in the backseat of the passenger van sent my heart spiking like lightning in a bottle
your callused fingertips gingerly guiding my own from brassy string to brassy string with a smirk and a smile
your warm hand on the small of back as i walked through the door with you, protective and possessive in a way that made me writhe and grin with delight
your hand on my hip and the other on my cheek, my ears turning red and my skin flaming to your touch, burning burning burning at the mere whisper of you on my body
it was you, the first, who left me changed—your calluses and warmth and light left me blazing in a way i knew not was possible
the mere thought of your hand slipping underneath my gauzy skirt left me aflame and ashamed
it was the great awakening, you see, to the power i held in my brilliant beating body
i could desire another as much as he desired me, that i, too, was allowed to ravish you
now it crashes over me in waves
when i hear ellington’s “sophisticated lady,” my hips become a weapon with the saxophone’s moans and growls that echo deep in my bones
when i hear that “every little thing i do is magic,” i believe it because for the first time it is true, true, true, against that sparkling guitar
when i hear the black keys whine “baby, i’m howlin for you,” i’m right there with them, desperate for the smell of you to coat my throat like smoke
and then the you becomes yous and then them toos and then a they and theirs i know i am too far gone to live with a dirty little secret,
that i am not gentle or clean—i am, in fact, allowed to feel this way
so when i get ready for those first dates and kisses and hand holds and . . . you know, those other wishes
i blast duke and sting and breathe in the fire and the smoke
because it took just one touch from those pesky hands of yours
for me to discover that i can in fact swing and sway and play sly
in order that i may burn alive
Magdalena Kamphausen is a student currently attending Wheaton College. She has a soft spot for comic books, emotional poetry, and rock n’ roll. She has been writing poems and short stories, painting, and making music for as long as she can remember.
moments and miles
Honorable Mention in the Hips Contest
tinny eighties pop blares over the speakers as you swing, swing, swing closer to me
your sun-streaked zags of hair turned icy in the pulsing blue light,
a grin of delight stretched across your face
when you catch of glimpse of my flushed cheeks
my skin burns and splits where your callused fingertips graze it
i want for nothing more than for your hands to snake their way along my body
our one-two-three-four layers of clothing one-two-three-four layers too many
and suddenly i vanish when your hands find my hips
i am young again, barbie dolls spilled pink across my bedroom floor
plastic pastel shoes litter the ground and i am wondering why the princess’s form is so smooth in my hands—why my chest isn’t as full and my tummy isn’t so flat;
but i tug a ball gown onto her and then my biggest concern is where her other sparkly stiletto has gone
i am little still, running after the other girls in gym class, when suddenly it is time for dodgeball and a pit has formed in my stomach
oh no, i think, not this again, as one by one by one the athletic girls—the skinny girls, i remind myself—are no longer standing next to me and i am the only one left, the big girl, not good enough to keep up with the rest
i am foolish here, not old enough for the real world but too far gone for fairytales,
when my favorite class, my english class, becomes my worst nightmare—
the soccer boys have tag-teamed and wrangled me defenseless—
one of his pink hands hands far far too low on my hip as he reads me dirty poetry meant to excite not fright;
while his partner watches so our overworked tired-out teacher never hears my cry
i am playing dumb now, twirling long blonde hair tightly round my finger
wishing my body felt like mine in a uniform that just seemed too tight, too red, not quite right
because i stick out like a sore thumb next to the girls with visible ribs and pierced noses,
hair dark and eyes even darker yet
so i line my lids with kohl and hope the boy in my history class doesn’t notice i am pretending, primping, priming, only to eat my lunch alone
and suddenly i remember when your hands find my hips
my heart leaps and i fear you see me completely,
a hardened mask laid bare in glassy eyes and bright red ears,
yet i want for nothing more than your smoke to choke my gaze, my almost-tears
but then your hand slips, and in a rush i move it back, slowly, smoothly, where it belongs,
my clammy hands sure and steady—despite that pesky twinkle in your eye—
and i know you have seen me, but you choose to stay
stay, despite the hips that hold me both a moment and many miles away from you
awakening
how was i supposed to know that you would send me ablaze?
you see, i didn’t realize you were the one who smoked me out until i talked about you with a friend the way i talked about the hundred million galaxies spiraling up beyond me, beyond us
you, who walked with jangling bones and broad shoulders,
you, bouncing along like the beatles were always blaring in your beautiful brain
you, with hair that was all spiky sunshiny edges, like pure gold in the sunset glow
you, with bright smiles and calico sky eyes, lit me up like no one before
i will never forget the first time we connected, all wide eyes and grazing hands and bitten lips and tanned skin and windblown hair
your thigh pressed against mine in the backseat of the passenger van sent my heart spiking like lightning in a bottle
your callused fingertips gingerly guiding my own from brassy string to brassy string with a smirk and a smile
your warm hand on the small of back as i walked through the door with you, protective and possessive in a way that made me writhe and grin with delight
your hand on my hip and the other on my cheek, my ears turning red and my skin flaming to your touch, burning burning burning at the mere whisper of you on my body
it was you, the first, who left me changed—your calluses and warmth and light left me blazing in a way i knew not was possible
the mere thought of your hand slipping underneath my gauzy skirt left me aflame and ashamed
it was the great awakening, you see, to the power i held in my brilliant beating body
i could desire another as much as he desired me, that i, too, was allowed to ravish you
now it crashes over me in waves
when i hear ellington’s “sophisticated lady,” my hips become a weapon with the saxophone’s moans and growls that echo deep in my bones
when i hear that “every little thing i do is magic,” i believe it because for the first time it is true, true, true, against that sparkling guitar
when i hear the black keys whine “baby, i’m howlin for you,” i’m right there with them, desperate for the smell of you to coat my throat like smoke
and then the you becomes yous and then them toos and then a they and theirs i know i am too far gone to live with a dirty little secret,
that i am not gentle or clean—i am, in fact, allowed to feel this way
so when i get ready for those first dates and kisses and hand holds and . . . you know, those other wishes
i blast duke and sting and breathe in the fire and the smoke
because it took just one touch from those pesky hands of yours
for me to discover that i can in fact swing and sway and play sly
in order that i may burn alive
Magdalena Kamphausen is a student currently attending Wheaton College. She has a soft spot for comic books, emotional poetry, and rock n’ roll. She has been writing poems and short stories, painting, and making music for as long as she can remember.