The first TV consoles squatted like solitary,‬
‪heavy ankylosaurs on living-room carpets. ‬

‪Then came the domestic herd, in kitchens‬
‪of mothers making new recipes, in bedrooms‬

‪for itchy children with chickenpox, in dads’
‪dens for the game. The radios were stashed‬

‪and we lived in the shadows until pixilations‬
‪made us see all ethnicities, the surround‬

‪sound so laugh tracks could tickle our necks‬
‪like pesky poltergeists on a bender. Next came‬

‪the Superbowl parties, each glass bowl of dip,‬
‪salsa, or chips fitted with antenna and tuner,‬

‪each submarine sandwich hiding a speaker.‬
It was a tiny step to the portable monitors,

handheld, pocket-sized, on wristbands, on
necklaces, on ceilings in dentists’ offices.

Lovers placed them in belly buttons to make
their labors easier, not nearly as dangerous

as the streaming steering column or rifle-
mounted satellite dish during deer season.

Henhouses swooned to a silky stillness when
farmers mounted flatscreens on coop walls,

each chicken laying eggs while agog at all
carnal exploits of foxy soap-opera villainesses.

Who can deny the power of HD streaming
in the church confessional booth and rigged 

pacemakers set to broadcast Space Ghost 
for vascular surgeons? But those watchers

are pikers compared to those souls glued
to a looping Twilight Zone marathon inside

cracked Katrina-ed crypts across the Mississippi
Delta. Everywhere, we see screens and screens 

see us, filter and become us, our windows, mirrors, 
and nannies, blessed panoptical prison cathedrals.

Eyes are the original cameras, and they flicker dangerously
into the abyss, into the other light.