Dark Lady Poetry - Heidi Therrien




Heidi Therrien



Breaking Other Boys

for my father


They thought we were rucksacks. 


pieces of metal

sagged at our necks

upon orders

we broke formation-crumbled

into dust

choked life from everything we touched


the compartments of our minds

as purposeful as our pockets

filled with mother’s tears

our family voice was a foreign face

and we saluted goodbye 


the time passed

because we shot it 

we took the gun

and pushed it through the clock’s soft skull

sediment left behind


when the shots were fired

we ran into them

counting bullet shells

like birthday candles


boys in a sandbox breaking other boys

who wanted to be

the strange Supermen of our childhood 


we few

walking gravestones

we once backpacks

who traded for a gun

blind faith followers

reaching for a different sun




now we stand

boys against the weather

biting blindly against the sand


we stone cold grave stones

digging our own death

our honor

our freedom

our childhood dreams


then we return home

with sandpaper kisses

and dusty breath

and broken hands

and broken faces

and sour bodies

               and blank canvas'




They thought we were rucksacks.

We were men.


                             And our hearts were not meant






                                                         to turn purple








Inspired by The Stones of Summer



I sit on a makeshift bed 

scribbling letters about a man who

gave himself to me in the form of books

‘Here’ he said

‘these are my children,

take good care of them, especially these two.’

he placed books of paper on my cardboard hand

               and I let him down so many times

twisted his veins into forget-me-knots and smiled


we never






I read the books pile by pile now

kiss the paper slits

and keep the red runoff

in viles on the window

that window laughs at me every morning



during late spring

early summer

and the window judges me

shades its lid half down

and mouth slightly agape

breezing disapproval




but that man and I

have plans to run to Iowa

and drown in the nostalgia

flashing us back to the book

like gusts of brave wind on the way somewhere

they’ve been a hundred times before

but not like this

we are bronze now

we are something better than trophy

we fix our own breaks now

with words and tongue

and each lick of sound

is a page in our own book

and we never pay for it








On The Breaking Mourning




He was a fruit.

He was a fruit that spoiled when you looked at him.

His spoiled smell carried bruises from lover's hands.

We handed him a knife.

He figured out the rest.












Heidi Therrien is a poet and painter from Manchester, NH. Her poems have appeared in journals such as, The 2010 Poets' Guide to New Hampshire, Blood on the Floor Vol: II, Centripetal, Angelic Dynamo and her chapbook, and High Point of My Day, which was published Sargent Press.  A finalist for the 2009 NH slam team, her writing group, Blood on the Floor, won the 2008, 2009, and 2010 New England Invitational Poetry Slam in Portland, ME,  as well as was one of the featured poets at the 2009 Jazzmouth Poetry Festival.  She has performed with David Amram, performed on the radio, and has been featured around the seacoast at venues such as The Northstar Café, Beat Night at the Press Room, The Bridge Café, Lowell Café, and The Stone Pigeon, which she currently hosts.