Six foot three, basking in tawny heat,
sunk in his lounger, spring to September.
His face bakes like earth.
Chest hairs slice the sweat beads.
The black leather watch (he never forgot
to unstrap) ticks beside his ghetto blaster.
Cobalt eyes, silver thick hair, dentured smile,
arms folded under the crest of his chest,
he poses for fall’s final mould.
Later, after the black skid, spin and deep
tip of the freshly polished blue Caddy;
after the crunch of skull on the dashboard;
even after the front page photo and headline:
my father’s watch, still ticking,
unzipped from the O.P.P.’s plastic.
No cracks, glass smooth to touch.
Dry mud flakes sprinkle like ashes
on to my opening hand.
“…dives sensually into experience and enables the reader to follow. She writes what happens so that it happens again. It’s an appealing collection, full of telling and specific detail.”
— Poetry Ireland Review 61
“Graham has much promise as a poet, and makes one eager to read a full collection of her work.”
— Nessa O’Mahoney, InCognito, Dublin
“…resurrects and at the same time revivifies the ordinary, the everyday, in a new light.”
— Books Ireland
“…Graham is a young poet whose work should be closely attended to.”
— Arc Poetry Magazine
“Irony and wit are some of the gifts best displayed by Catherine Graham.”
— The Field Day Anthology of Irish Writing, Vol IV & V