[triggered (and with trigger warning) by Jennifer Knox’s “The Best Thanksgiving Ever” https://blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/the_best_american_poetry/2019/11/the-best-thanksgiving-ever-by-jennifer-l-knox.html

(Setting: The house of Lord Byron, 139 Piccadilly, Mayfair, London, Thanksgiving eve, 1815.)

After everyone left the dinner party (Hazlitt, as usual, droned on), we let the dogs out of their kennels. They were all hyper and wanted to hump each other and the furniture, so we closed the living room door and let them. I said to Byron, That was some erotic pastoral you recited to the guests, you “Precious Bitch.” Ha, ha, my Augusta, he said, the only reason you can say that to me is because I said that was my nickname in the poem. Right, I said, but how about we do what the dogs are doing, after I paddle your bottom and you paddle mine, just like you were doing to the naked men in your poem? Uh, he said, I think you are going a bit too far, sister, because that was just a poem, and poems are not real, as we know. Since when? I said. Since, like, Beowulf? he said. What do you mean poems are not real, haven’t you read the latest theories of consciousness? I shouted, smacking his behind with my squash racket and pretty smartly. Ouch! he said, that fucking stung, you asshole. Of course it stung, I said, that’s the point–at least you didn’t fart like “Ed” did, inside your poem. Listen, he said, are you trying to steal my satire, you dirty slag? You know you like it, I said. No, I don’t like it, he said, yanking my head back by the hair, his lips brushing mine. You are a hot, fat poetry girl-boy and you know it, and if you keep it up, I will put a post on social media and that will be the end of you. Wot? I said. We have been together for nigh two years now, and we’ve had great sex, why would you do something like that? Because, he said, I’m a Lord and poet and I can do whatever the fuck I want, and what I want is for you to call me Jennifer. The dogs somehow had opened the living room door all by themselves and invaded the kitchen, where we were now having some rough trade on the cutting-board island. Hey, Thumper is humping my foot! said Byron. You are my “Precious Bitch,” I said, hit me on the bottom with the squash racket. He did and because I was nervous, I farted, even louder than “Ed.” That broke the mood, for some reason. Awkwardly, we put the dogs back in the kennels and sat down on the grand settee. I picked up a copy of English Bards and Scotch Reviewers and pretended to read. After a while, I said, somewhat sheepishly, Are you really going to report me on social media? Because you know that in the poetry world the consequences can be pretty lethal. No, he said, but only because if I did, the Twitter conflagration would distract from my poem “The Best Thanksgiving Ever,” which has gotten 23,127 ‘Likes’ at Best American Poetry site, otherwise I probably would. That’s not a very nice reason! I cried. We sat there for a while, pouting, both of us knowing this would be our last night together, that things had passed a certain tipping point, like in global warming, when the tundra thaws and everyone dies, and stuff. Who are you texting, I said. I am texting Annabella, what of it? Well, good luck with your poetry, then, I said. Yeah, well, Happy Thanksgiving and good luck with yours, too, said Byron, even though your poetry totally sucks.