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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


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