Kitchen Concert

A poem capturing a moment when my parents served up a Verdi aria.

This poem is part of the NaPoWriMo 2025 challenge to write a poem a day in April. This is the prompt for April 25.

In her poem, senzo, Evie Shockley recounts the experience of being at a live concert, relating it the act of writing poetry. Today we’d like to challenge you to write a poem that recounts an experience of your own in hearing live music, and tells how it moves you. It could be a Rolling Stones concert, your little sister’s middle school musical, or just someone whistling – it just needs to be something meaningful to you.

My parents were whistlers. My dad used to whistle entire arias (sometimes broken up by his humming) and my mom whistled mostly catchy do-wop tunes and hymns. Yeah, they were a little weird. They also both called our animals by whistling, as do I. I’ve owned only one cat that responded to my whistle. The others just ignore the sounds—whistle or not—coming out of my mouth.

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In the kitchen, where escovitch fish meets  
the scent of fresh limes, my parents embark;

a duet of whistling that could summon our neighbors—  
an opera of chirps, trills, and occasional wheezes.  

Dad’s whistle, like a rusty hinge,  
clashes with Mom’s, a sprightly bird.  

Together, they create a ruckus, a symphony gone rogue,  
Verdi rolling in his grave, laughing, I’m sure.  

I lean against the fridge, arms crossed,  
trying to stifle my bubbling laughter,

as they crescendo, oblivious to our dog’s confusion,  
who howls in protest, joining the cacophony.  

With this chaotic concert, it registers,  
love just might sound like two off-key notes,  

and I wouldn’t trade it for all the arias in the world.  

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