Gabriella Roman


EXAMINATION: A cross-section is taken of the home.  The cardiologists are awakened by the systematic pulse of dead organs. They find four children seated at a blackwood table silently waiting, numb fingers interlaced with latex gloves. Their cold glass bodies are puffed with emptiness, surrounded by walls in a house of open windows and translucent skin. The room  closes in, eliminating its toxic corners and sharp edges, recoiling into a vacant space. Shadows consume broken limbs and threadbare furniture. The children fall ill of tainted lungs with poison air, coughing into the atmosphere an array of unheard gasps and sighs. Smothered memories ghost across swollen cheeks as innocence is shattered.

Sketch for Apollo and the Muses 
John Singer Sargent: 1917-21

I am an idle square
a parallelogram of right angles and golden frame

marginalized by collapsed bones
and powdered lily pads

echoes tread the vacuum
as nuclear currents fall mute against euterpe’s severed veins

his shoulder blade arches against hollow breast in a series of intertwined limbs
forearms combing bare complexion

an opaque canvas of prickled skin and outstretched smiles
holds onto a nailed thread

an overlay of charcoal against charcoal on charcoal
a spectrum: smoke/dust/ash

melpomene mirrors human anatomy
for I am satire in a painting

Gabriella Roman is a first-year student at Boston University pursuing a Bachelor’s Degree in Business and Science Administration. She lives in New York with her parents and stuffed dog. This is her first publication.