by Phoebe Stuckes

All I think about is love and money, marrying for money and falling in love
on the side. Staying in love with my old loves, meeting them in oyster bars,
never forgetting anything, never making any money. I think about Jean Rhys
in Paris, waiting for Harrison Ford to wire her some money, she was perpetually
short on love and money. Did I say Harrison Ford? I meant Ford Madox Ford,
he had so much money. When I watched Parade’s End I thought I could be
the little suffragette who loved him, as if I could stand a passionless existence
shut away in a girls’ school, earning my little money. He never tells her how he is feeling.
I don’t want that kind of love or money. I want to be stinking drunk in a restaurant
eating bread from a basket, thinking of vintage Prada and snow. I’ll take the love or the money.