by Anna Sykora

Ploughed Under

we opened our arms
to the too-blue sky

and lifted our heads
in the parching wind

and row upon row
we wore out in the sun

roots shrinking up
into hands without fingers

lean stems crumpling
into dried ruins

muttering it’s too late for us

then old men in tractors
ploughed us under

where we lie dreaming
of hindering the living

with our thin sighs of
we almost made it


From the Soil

Our tribe, which hoarded guns and tins,
Has slaughteered the wild ones for their sins
And raised up a beacon bright as gold;
Now only our stories can be told.

But sometimes out on patrol at twilight
I hear a humming from the soil;
I hear the songs that accuse us still,
And how they vow they always will.



Mother can’t make you
Make your bed,

Now that you're nuts
And Mother’s dead.

Lie on the cold hard rock

     Anna Sykora has been an attorney in New York and teacher of English in Germany, where she resides with her patient husband and three cats. To date she has placed hundreds of poems and stories in the small press. Writing is her joy. Motto: eat your rejections like pretzels.