I’m Brahman. But we’re stuck without a maid.
Around the house I just do what I can:
throw out my dirty water, fill the can;
but have no dish-cloth; mess things I’m afraid.
She says that this is no work for a man.
And I feel self-reproach and helplessness
when she spoils my long-spoilt unhandiness
again with what she’s conjured in the pan.
And always I’ve revered Him, who displays
magical immanence – world, knowledge, art:
when she gives me my porridge and I gaze
on fingertips that are all cracked and hard,
the selfsame burning adoration stands
for Sun, Kant, Bach, as for her calloused hands.