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.
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