“Kinetic and spectral, wise and suspicious of wisdom, Brandel France de Bravo’s Locomotive Cathedral chugs into an expansive, vaulted space, where ‘any raised surface can be an altar,’ via a hybrid text of poems, prose poems, and brief lyric essays. There is even a companion crow with one foot, René, who, like the speaker, is compelling and brilliant and makes no promises. Deft with figurative language—‘Like restaurant carp, we are learning to live in this aquarium,’—France de Bravo also questions the whole enterprise. ‘Metaphors can seem so transactional, language doing business, swapping currency,’ she writes, in a zuihitsu on giving and taking. Nothing here is undisputable, even the tools of the trade, and I love it. I love her parables breathing contemporary life into twelfth-century Tibetan Buddhist slogans on mind training—‘And then, there was the time I drove a dangerous highway, / thumb-drive buried in my bun . . . files and poems bobby-pinned / to my skull.’ I love the poems on flood and fire and plague, on dryer lint and home improvement, on the subject/object conundrum, on the woman, a mature, exhilarative presence, and on the one-legged crow, who has the first word, and the last.”—Diane Seuss, Pulitzer Prize–winning author of frank: sonnets and Modern Poetry

“The muse of this collection is a one-legged crow, and crow it does, with an insinuating, insistent music and a wily, restless aesthetic that hops from brilliant image to sly aphorism to tender insight. These poems are luminously dark, keenly observant, and endlessly curious about the whole symphony of existence, where nothing is lost, everything is transformed, and we live our lives ‘not dying, but molting.’ Locomotive Cathedral is marked by its unflinching yet compassionate gaze; we are blessed to have it.”—Michael Bazzett, author of The Echo Chamber

“Brandel France de Bravo’s Locomotive Cathedral is a panoramic meditation ushering us into stillness. With grace and humility, in a skillful range of forms, France de Bravo sings a praise song to surrender. When living means ‘cycling through the stink and stain,’ France de Bravo celebrates the sacred pause, reminding us that ‘any raised surface can be an altar, a place to kneel.’”—Rage Hezekiah, author of Yearn