Indelible

Indelible

i.m. Evelyn McHale, 1947

Any colour that he wants, so long as it is black. 

—Henry Ford, 1922

Life’s suicide, soft as tissue, crumpled on the chassis.

Her hair had been curled meticulously, darkened

to match her good wool skirt, carefully flat-ironed,

her stockings hung out to dry by the window.

A press of faces, black-and-white. Another

fallen child of the war, a woman murmured.

The detective arrived, damp in his trenchcoat

and removed his hat in thought or veneration,

then eyed her naked feet. Shoes slipped off

on the edge: one sole worn right through,

left heel thinned beyond replacement. Silk blouse

shot with a knife-sharp crease where her torso

was impossibly bent. Red lipstick still perfect,

mascara sooting lashes lowered onto her cheeks.

Nothing should have survived the endless,

headlong fall from ledge to street. A lady

in furs, her mouth a deep O: forever open,

admitting death in its finery. We all dress

for the final hour, our shadows on the periphery

before us as we peel off our jackets and jump.

Paying for it

I’m in Woolies, at the self-serve checkout, trying

to work out how I’ll carry two packets of twenty

toilet rolls plus the rest down the street home.

A cut-glass voice: berating an old Chinese man—

Get in line, you didn’t queue up. The man might have been

wearing a patchwork jacket, his wife in faded Mao blues.

They didn’t understand. Too late: I should have turned

away but now they’ve spotted me. I lowered

my Chinese eyes, ashamed. The man picks up

his basket and shuffles to another counter.

He stands too close to the blond man finishing

his purchase. This man smiles, but not kindly.

He tells him The queue is back there. Bewilderment.

I accost the Asian Woolies guy and tell him

You should help them. He barks out a laugh

and beckons the couple to self-serve. I’m incredulous—

They don’t understand! They can’t read! They won’t know how

and he flicks his eyes away as he says I’ll help them.

They’re confused as hell: this country and its systems

and incomprehensible people. I manage to bag up my things

and load up my trolley and not look at the couple

at the same time. I walk home slowly, shamed

and in shame. Why, I don’t know. I unpack my groceries.

I can’t find the receipt. I’ve never paid for anything.

Eileen Chong