Fiona Hanley

the present perfect

The past is chewing a dodgy Subway sandwich in Camden,
but doesn’t know it yet. Chomping into warm chicken oozing

mayonnaise. The past still eats meat.
The past is wandering Prague, taking naps with the American

in Kampa gardens. The past doesn’t need
analysis. Not yet. The past just wants jedno pivo

and a skinny cigarette. The past is walking the streets of Dublin
knocking on office doors, telling puzzled faces, I’m here to check

your franking machine. Everybody says, Come in so, except
the Christian bookshop. They are worried the past might be a terrorist.

The past is breaking up with First Love in Genoa train station. This is over,
the past says calmly. First Love spits back, You can’t do this,

right up close, like a coward. The past does,
and buys a single to Finale Ligure.

The past is waking up on a couch in Neuköln, confused and thirsty,
with I Can’t Remember His Name still breathing heavily,

and the past says, Never again, never again.
The past is on a train to Crossmyloof listening

to the conductor sing-say, Thanks pawl, thanks pawl,
all the way down the carriage, handing each ticket back

with his blue squiggle on it. The past wants to keep going,
but has to get off at the next stop.

The past is eating pierogi with Love At First Touch
in Zakopane, the sun catching grey flints

of his eyes and the past thinks, This will last,
tells everyone who’ll listen,

This time it’s different.

Fiona Hanley is a writer based in Connemara, Ireland. She has recently been placed 3rd for the Lough Mask Poetry competition. Her work can be read in Howl: New Irish Writing, Cassandra Voices, and Kunstlicht, amongst others. She holds a PhD in Cultural Studies from the University of Edinburgh.