How to Mount a Sick-Room TV
Using your average stud finder, palm the flat hand of it against the drywall, until it pings with an infrared calm. Pencil the moment. Drill until splinter and plaster dust are couplet. This is where to fathom the topmost bolt, and how to sink true the steely other into the shin bones of your house. This is how a wall-mounted flatscreen should swag: like an offertory hat, a wrist in a sling, or an awkward pause in a eulogy. Now, calibrate its declination and pivot. Power on its shrill obliquities of streaming apps: open-concept living; dewy-eyed serial dramas; klaxoning ideologues; bickering upscale housewives. This is how to be, and how to be sustained, how to couch infirmity within that frailty of memory foam, clean cotton bedding, and a wireless remote jigged beside your hip while power cords synapse the underbelly of your bed. This is what joists hope: a constant of mitered walls, a spouse handy at stoutly bolting to them whatever cantilevers deep most and cumbrous from within you. This is how he battens down along side you and surveils your repose; how he waits for you to toggle on, scatter into those lambent capillaries of blue-white pulse. This is how you will curve to his parenthesis of hands, tilt upward to the axis of his mouth. This is why you will puzzle your invalid limbs into a hard-bitten bulwark of shank nail and sheetrock, become a thing at once upright and pendent as breath; why this bedridden life, pinned, knuckled, shall not, like a morticed hinge, shut you.
Previously published in Mollyhouse and The Ending Hasn't Happened Yet.