"Robin Durnfords latest poetry collection opens with a newborn and ends, as the title suggests, at Becketts grave in Paris. These poems are a conversation, not with the Irish-born modernist playwright himself, but with his texts on absurdity and existence and loneliness. Through the deaths of her parents and the birth of her son, Newfoundland-born Durnford explores home as an assault, pummelled / by one-two punches of hope despair. Like Beckett, who refuses to have his body returned to Ireland after his death anticipating an eternal dose of disgust, At Becketts Grave rails against nostalgia and saccharine notions of belonging, battling against church bells that dont stop but clang like / god coming at us. The bells go on and the granite and wind and fir of home persist. Durnford has crafted a steady stare right through you." Monica Kidd, author of The Year of Our Beautiful Exile