TSW Artist in Residence, Bianca Ng, writes a meditative inquiry into rest

A companion guide of supplemental materials for Issue 13: Rebellious Joy

We’re all on the grassy patch of land east of Christ the King, our school, with our uniform plaid skirts hiked, wearing way too much lip-gloss and not enough deodorant.

When Mom called to tell me the news that Memito had died, I went to go fish out that old photo from what could barely be called a closet.

I came / I was culled

My fifteen dozen eggs––compulsive purchase of inherited scarcity––are delivered in blue cardboard honeycomb.

Do you get jealous? / Here, I walk / sweatless in the sunlight / and no one tries / to fry an egg on the sidewalk.

I am quick to enter when you’re gone, freeze at your alarm. I gave up knocking long ago.

on this shore, there is a body with an arm cut. / i fumble with the forsythia, that nudge of spring

what power is in my hands / my hands be power, be power, / my power is in what hands, my what / is power in whose hands.

In 1973 a black boy / was murdered on / my Mother’s birthday

At night, when Laura lay awake on her memory foam mattress, she listened and could not hear anything at all.

Everything I need to hear / the slug churns out / in its stream of glitter

Despite my history of garden neglect, each year I delight in the sensation of newly turned soil.

Sirens wail all night on these streets / blanketed / (as in, humiliated) / by day’s hurried departure.