A rogue moose wanders into a suburb near Quebec city, tramples lawns and gardens, stumbles in and out of a swimming pool, is tracked by three gun toting heads of family who shoot it down just as a school bus goes by wherein a little girl is trilling “Three Little Kittens.” Thus begins No Grave For This Place, Judy Quinn’s bleak, ironic, and at times darkly comic tribute to Auberivière, the neighbourhood where she grew up. Here “streets are landing strips / for planes that will never arrive,” the dead “descend / the steps of prefab houses / champagne flutes in their hands,” and a pack of cats “throws itself on the electric fences / surrounding our inner lives.” Quinn’s voice will resonate with all those who have, by association or from experience, tasted the cultural barrenness that can underlie civilized life.