Issue 5.2
Spring 2026
Tasha Deen
Hands of the Weaver (Cliffs of Moher)
The grass rolls over itself.
Long spines curl, etching
the grey overhead.
Their wispy tails carry
secrets hushed across whispering valleys;
this is how they carry their
history.
Lost along cliff's edges;
a tale of unweaving narratives.
In a humorous tone, I ask,
where this leaves the weaver.
The wind throws my words back to me,
raveling into them. I land on
the pillowing comforts of unknowing.
The grass creeps around, growing on
my body, the hands of the weaver roll against my skin.
It is here, where I fall to rest.
Lying in the billowing Brí,
along the meadows of Moher.
Tasha Deen was born and raised in Brooklyn, NY; she is currently finishing her undergraduate degree in English Literature at Middlebury College. She works for the New England Review and is a Kellogg Humanities Fellow. Her work has been published in Middlebury’s Blackbird Literary & Arts Journal, Rainy Day, and Middlebury Geographic Magazine. When she can take a break from her school reading, she can still be found reading a handful of books at a time and creatively writing about the scenery and people around her. She can often be found walking local trails with her headphones on and her orange notebook, a gift from her father, by her side.
Tasha's Book Recommendation
Morning Poems by Darian Razdar
I Remember by Joe Brainard
It Could Always Be Like This by Hannah Walker Finnie
Reflection
I hope my poems are read with their eyes closed, words forming images and images forming words—memories and moments held beyond the scope of lived experience. My poems reflect my own experiences: riding the train, walking along and noticing, and sometimes reflecting on fleeting friendships. But I'm quite spacey and so often things I hear and see are missed, so I would like readers to step back and also read my work as they are: urban poems from varying urban environments and the sometimes entrance into rural or grassland spaces. I grew up in the city, and concrete against grass is a constant and recurring image. But I also left the city with great intentions. Maybe this leaves readers questioning what spaces exist between, and maybe this can be felt and heard and seen in these poems.