Oblivion, or The Stratum of Holly McGuinty

I’ve read squirrels are

unwittingly planting

millions of trees—

by forgetting where they’ve buried

their many nuts. We undoubtedly

owe them our breath.

Perhaps the ability

to harken back

isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Your grandfather’s

unable to conjure the

Legion he belongs to.

Or the war in which his leg

had gone astray. His prosthetic’s

been misplaced. If only

that meant it spawns

a brand-new limb.

He’ll hop into the

mall when you’re away, ask the clerk

if he can buy the single shoe

behind the window.

Pay half the boasted price.

He’ll say it’s only fair, as

though he can recollect

what fairness means.

An elephant might have snagged

a million peanuts—

if she wasn’t so obsessed with

not forgetting. Such is

memory’s anvil:

the image

that’s been seared of a

starving boy—in a Gazan

mother’s arms.

Or maybe it was Yemen—

a skeleton which was swollen,

like the band of black that’s

wrapped above your elbow,

discerning blood’s coercion.

Everyone who has hungered

echoes Auschwitz. Pajamas

cling to shoulders like some

hanger in a closet

marred with silk.

Even spiders can get

befuddled

on where they’ve parked.

Few will sever their sleeve—

once their arm’s been

blown astrew, flailing in

the wind like a raggedy

flag. To draw a blank

can be a blessing.

There’s a reason

surrender’s white.

When you were suicidal,

you wished your heart

would scratch its head on

how to beat.

Your lungs would hem & haw

on how to breathe. Ribs must

carry the heft of

all your sorrow, and they’ll do it

while your mind’s on other

things—scrolling for

the age of woods,

the lift of coloured

balloons, for the pack rats

making you chuckle.

Your bones will be the

last to finally attest that

you were here, reminiscing

with the hickory

never chosen, in a layer of

smothering stone,

archiving all that it has

heard but not betrayed.

Andreas Gripp

February 2, 2026

RF Photo