Ode to Homonyms
Sure, there are the days when I think I might
gouge my eyes out if I read another sentence
in which there stands in for their, or your
subsumes you’re. How many teacherly eye-
roles have sighed a version of kids these daze?
But eye no that even spell-check does knot catch
them awl, though it’s getting better over thyme.
Four every ate or ten careless ones I sea, there
mite bee the won that knocks the heir out of me:
a young friend once gifted me the drawing
of a Pensoul she maid on waist paper
when she was board; it one my hart
and has staid in mined. Every weak
oar sow I wonder what kind of soul wood a pen
oar pencil have? Witch reminds me, two,
of the tail about the big friendly giant
and the human beans. Of all the beans
in the hole world, only the human ones
kill there own kind. Aunts and bares
and dear and doughs and flees and foul
and hairs and links and mousse and muscles
and wails don’t sleigh each otter.
They dye, washed up by the steady tied
on chili beeches beside bleached choral,
end without anyone to fined or berry them,
know earn or alter for morning, no cite
to mark wear their soles set sale or blue
away, no flours or gait to brake the horizon
or insight a wholly him from on hi.
Why shouldn’t all those beans and woulden
ones have soles? They have jeans like hours,
get soar and grown sometimes, I’m shore.
Where once I side at the wait of words
that seamed wrong, wishing they could bee
write, now eye think of worlds to billed, potions
a pensoul bruise, and everything is aloud.
gouge my eyes out if I read another sentence
in which there stands in for their, or your
subsumes you’re. How many teacherly eye-
roles have sighed a version of kids these daze?
But eye no that even spell-check does knot catch
them awl, though it’s getting better over thyme.
Four every ate or ten careless ones I sea, there
mite bee the won that knocks the heir out of me:
a young friend once gifted me the drawing
of a Pensoul she maid on waist paper
when she was board; it one my hart
and has staid in mined. Every weak
oar sow I wonder what kind of soul wood a pen
oar pencil have? Witch reminds me, two,
of the tail about the big friendly giant
and the human beans. Of all the beans
in the hole world, only the human ones
kill there own kind. Aunts and bares
and dear and doughs and flees and foul
and hairs and links and mousse and muscles
and wails don’t sleigh each otter.
They dye, washed up by the steady tied
on chili beeches beside bleached choral,
end without anyone to fined or berry them,
know earn or alter for morning, no cite
to mark wear their soles set sale or blue
away, no flours or gait to brake the horizon
or insight a wholly him from on hi.
Why shouldn’t all those beans and woulden
ones have soles? They have jeans like hours,
get soar and grown sometimes, I’m shore.
Where once I side at the wait of words
that seamed wrong, wishing they could bee
write, now eye think of worlds to billed, potions
a pensoul bruise, and everything is aloud.
March 2025
Genevieve Creedon is a scholar, poet, and essayist. Her writing focuses on relationships--real and imagined--and how they open up elsewheres. She has lived in Connecticut, New York, Maine, Michigan, New Jersey, and most recently, Indiana. Her work appears in About Place, Cider Press Review, Common Ground Review, Gyroscope Review, and Narrative Northeast, among others.
Art: Claire Tang, Pushing Up Daisies. Oil on canvas.