The Girl Who Twirls
By Elijah Dahunsi '25
There’s a girl I saw
that night, by the house
a girl who’s short,
with a sullen face,
and a gaze,
like the pointed one
Moses fissured the rock with
It beams towards a boy,
or a group of boys,
on the edge of the street,
like a star,
travels through
the night’s glowing haze that
reflects off the shards of
her tight tank top and fitted jeans
It’s too bad
there are others like her,
with their shards,
at the house
It’s too bad
the illumination of constellations
block out the flickers of stars
It’s too bad
her friends can only
break into dance,
move her feet and
give her a twirl,
in an attempt to
remove the bleakness
I wish there was
someway I could tell her
about the One
the only One, it seems
that absorbs her beam,
lets it cut His heart
I wish there was
someway I could tell her
that the heat of this fission,
this galaxial burst of warmth,
could melt the shards,
recast a mirror.
But alas,
I’m lightyears away
connected by only a glimpse
when the girl I saw,
that night, by the house,
turns her head,
and shatters her eyes
into specks of water,
looking for divinity,
but distracted
by the hands of her friends
who grab her tightly
and give her another twirl.
This piece is part of a series asking, “Who is God? And what is He like?”
This Fall, we invite you to tell us how you understand the character, nature, and identity of God through poetry, reflections, art, or more!
Illustration by Ashley Yae '23