Blood Moon

Shira Haus


I forget to tell you I love you;

I can see the whites of your eyes,

frightened. Sometimes I go inside myself and find

only bone and no blood, just dust. I don’t love

anything sometimes. You have to know that.

Once I woke early, as sunrise bruised the fragile sky

and slew my own father, tore myself

from his stomach and crowned my mother

with his sinew. How am I supposed

to pick the thorns out of my back and love

something that doesn’t look like my own

hand? Omit the details, tie me up. Spit in my

face, tell me I deserve it, tell me what I already

know: my insides, iron. Say it’s not a joke

this time. Rub it in a little bit more.

I was not made to love.





Shira Haus is a student at Allegheny College studying English, Spanish, and political science. Haus’s work has been published in places such as the Albion Review, Snapdragon Journal, and the Oakland Arts Review. Haus has always been interested in exploring humanity’s darker, more intense emotions and desires through literature. In free time, Haus likes to read, cook, and knit while daydreaming about herding sheep in the mountains.