A Psalm of that guy with the burrito

By Elijah Dahunsi '25


A Psalm of that guy with the burrito

and two drenched coats above some jeans.


My enemies were great;

they fell upon my being in

waves of slightly cold, faintly seen

projectiles.


The deadly kinds,

yes, the piercing arrows that

slipped off my raincoat,

dripped onto the foil paper

of the burrito,

my burrito

yes, the one I ordered

with the extra guac on top


I wondered if You

would deliver me

from these pestilences


stretch Your hands,

and with grandiose articulations,

separate the heavens and the earth

and the waters within;


funnel these darts in

the webs of Your fingers, and

bleed,

heavily so,

when You enclose Your fists,

contort Your palm, and

divide the gore from

my view,

leaving silence—


When suddenly,

It seemed as if

You responded

in the memory of

an umbrella tucked in

a compartment of my bag

I stopped,

saying a prayer of praise;

the Lord remembers

the wars of kings,

the cymbals of choirmasters,

the words of prophets,


and a thought

of a guy

with two drenched coats

and some jeans

going home to eat his burrito






 

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 Jocelyn Salim '23

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