shannagh rowland

northeastern savannah

In Hackensack, New Jersey
I am leaving a storage facility
when to my right I see
two men kneeling on rugs set at strange angles.
Their arms are raised.
They are bowing up and down.
They must be praying,
I think, they must be facing Mecca.

 On the street,
I think about strange things, like
motorcycle gangs and the hollow,
hateful sounds of eating disorders.
I listen to the exhaust of a chopper clap out,
the roll of a flat tire on the road before me.
The sky above me hangs low,
threatening rain.

trinity college, dublin

He leads me around campus. He identifies familiar structures,
stone monuments with names that I had never considered.
I have not been here for a while, quite some time, a whole year. Many things
have changed but nothing has moved on. We, at least, still know each other.

 Across campus, most of the interiors are off limits.
I imagine the comfortable stacks of books in the old library, musky and telling.
We were both kids once, expected to be adults now, and
I am lonely for a life I will never lead.

 We enter the National Gallery just before closing time.
We sit and stare at “The Taking of Christ.”
I’m attracted to their faces until I notice, discreet,
Judas and Jesus’ hands are intertwined.

 Later, when I am back in New York, I rediscover the image.
I look and I look and I see my mistake; Judas and Jesus never held hands.
Rather, He was always clasping at his own fingers,
leaning away.

Shannagh Rowland was born and raised in the West of Ireland. After graduating from New York University, she lived some years in New York City, where she worked for several editorial boards and departments. Her work has appeared in Crossways, Mudfish, The Gallatin Review, and more. She currently resides in Dublin, Ireland.