It was, I explained to Judith,
a matter of principle.
Personally, I told her, I was eager
to become as personal as possible,
though with an understanding.
So we became as personal as possible
and ah there was cause to thank her.
She had, I assured her,
a personality I had to believe
I would never forget. “Likewise,
I’m sure,” she said. “Please, Judith,”
I said, “this is no time for sarcasm.
I adore you as personally
as possible, but on principle,
I am not ready to marry.
“I have discussed it in the mirror
with my Fairy Godmother, who was once
Queen of England, you know. ‘Lor’ luv ya,’
she said, ‘fun’s fun. But a wife?—Coo!
It would destroy your personality!’”
I explained all this to Judith.
“Personally,” I said, “can you ask me
to destroy my personality?
Besides my Fairy Godmother
would forget my birthdays,
“she’s touchy as a queen, you know.”
Judith understood. She spent
the next forty years personally
understanding my personality
and making it clearer to me.
Once understood, it wasn’t much.
Nothing, certainly, I couldn’t give up.
And my Fairy Godmother, too.
One day I walked in
and no mirror would speak to me.
But Judith was there, lovelier
the more familiar than a court
of Fairy Godmothers in flower hats.
And why persist in saying no
when I didn’t really want to?
So I said yes—with the understanding
that it hadn’t been (exactly)
what I had had in mind, though
it became that, if not in
principle, then (very) personally.
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