Books by Lorie Ann Grover

Books by Lorie Ann Grover
Kirkus Starred Review, Firstborn: "A fantasy that reads like a lost history tome and deftly examines issues of gender...An engrossing story with welcome depths."

Poetry for Adults


They say,
gentle yourself.
Embody the psalmic woman
whose hands nurture and
give, give, give
in the light
that does not go out.

I brood,
sit unladylike
in the rocker that has
bred and muffled their babes.
I hunch in snapping anger,
brows slamming to hell
their contrite contriteness.
In darkness,
I fly with the Furies.

Lorie Ann Grover

First published by Scars Publications, cc&d magazine

Six Foot Woman

you laughed at,
stared at,
pointed at,
commentated on,
walking in a world
that doesn’t make clothes to fit
your anomaly.

you look
dance tip-to-toe
across the lanes of men
you choose
and lead
the ladies along,
high stepping and
flicking their skirts.
Anyone’s invited
to follow.

Lorie Ann Grover

First published by Scars Publications, cc&d magazine

How to Suck Ixora Flowers

Pinch the stem at its thin base
and pluck.
Draw the open tube to your
smiling lips,
purse and pull.
Suck the drop of nectar
onto your tongue and swallow.

Ask your brother,
Did you get any?
as you pinch another,
first red star
flaming to the dirt,
forgotten and smoothed
under the hot rubber
of your saltwater sandal.

The next leaves you sucking
and swallowing emptiness,
makes you
an empty tube of disappointment,
called to, get in the car now.

Tuck this flower behind your ear
to trick everyone that
you are full of sweetness.

Lorie Ann Grover

First published by Scars Publications, cc&d magazine


I am born under
the bony arch of his
white steepled fingers,
spidered on the pulpit
of smothering scriptures,
parroted and puffed past
the encroaching mustache,
above self-satisfied pats
to a jerked-up waist
of holy polyester.

I am baptized and rolled
under the descending heel
of self-righteous
white patent leather
and crunched.

Lorie Ann Grover

First published by Moria, Woodbury University

Sacred Enmity

At the first globe of blood

slipping down my thigh,
the Southern Baptist patriarchy
thrust me atop their purity pedestal.
With a glance,
they could check under my skirt,
no more than three inches
above my pubescent kneecaps.

They passed my uterus
from sweaty palm to sweaty palm,
weighing its worth and honor,
shoved it back up into place,
and stitched my vulva closed.

May hell not drip from here, they said.

I wobbled on one trembling foot
and pulled up
my slipping knee sock.

Lorie Ann Grover
First published by Rising Phoenix Review

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