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In The Lake of Your Bones
Peggy Dobreer
ISBN: 978-0-9839651
84pages/ 52 poems
Price: $15.00
Published by: Moontide Press

Advance Praise:

The Lake of Your Bones is a poetry book that opens like
revelation. Peggy Dobreer blends memory, meditation,
nature, sensuality and takes us to the lucid territory
between intuition and wisdom, between desire and
surrender. The language is at the same time enigmatic
and transparent.

Dobreer writes: "This poem is for you. /You are the
sanctuary of these words." As readers, we have no
escape; words and bones become the same matter,
we see ourselves in the inner lake of this luminous book.
     –Mariano Zaro, poet

Poet, Peggy Dobreer writes with a visceral alphabet
that celebrates pedestrian activity, the natural
world and the nature of love. Her language is at
once mysterious and common, playful and pointed.
She wades between the bones of her characters,
exposing the gristle. She will ask these poems
to get under your skin. You will want them there.
They will show you something you may never have
thought of before.

Wherever she takes us, from the blasted deserts
of the American west to the swollen banks of the
Ganges, we go willingly, reassured over and again
by her precision and grace.
Brendan Constantine, poet

These poems come out of a life of art, dance, love,
political involvement, travel, and the cauldron of
Los Angeles. In their music you will hear the urban
landscape, Spanish, and even ancient Sanskrit. Come
dance with Peggy Dobreer's poems. You'll be thankful
that you did.
Richard Garcia, poet

These poems flicker between the realms of the corporeal
and the ethereal, like a dancer moving through a room
of lit candles.
Douglas Richardson, poet

About the Poet:

Peggy Dobreer came to poetry by way of dance and experimental
theatre. Her work has appeared in Malpais Review and LA Yoga
among other journals and she is widely anthologized. She lives
in LA with her daughter and loves the tango.
Visit her at

From the Book:

by Peggy Dobreer

A dancer walks down Mission Street
with a Marlboro in one hand and a
latte from La Boheme in the other.
She is a rainbow muffler around thorax,

warming calves, pumping smoke,
dragging deep into the celery snap of
another San Francisco morning, and
itching to pull on the day’s first leotard.

This is Mariposa, heart of the dance.
A cable car up Polk, bus across town,
stop at the café and half a mile hoofing
it into the warehouse district.

Industrial doors open to cement hallways,
open to studio spaces softened by
sprung wood floors. The smell of
kiln and oils, and the long push of

a cotton broom across caramel floors.
Always care of the floor comes first, as
breath falls to lower chakras, dissolves all
dissonance, light streams in through

southern exposure. Today, the spirit of
Erick Hawkins wields the broom. Footsteps
are a barely audible imprint on the ear,
so quiet you can hear your breath.


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