BIO
Andrew Villegas is an editor at a public radio station in Denver, Colorado. He has worked as a reporter for several publications including Kaiser Health News, NBC's Breaking News, and covered local government and politics at the Greeley (Colo.) Tribune. His reporting work has been featured in The Washington Post, USA Today and heard on NPR. He holds English and journalism degrees from the University of Colorado in Boulder. His poetry has been featured and is upcoming in Glass: A Journal of Poetry.
@reporterandrew http://www.andrewvillegas.com
Grandpa Was A Cook, Not A Chef
Sous Vide. Puzzled, the look from him,
the first
time I realized that I had become separated
at the border of who I was from who
I am. We didn’t suck the air out of ourselves,
we didn’t dump us in boiling water, and
not
just anyone drown us in those rivers.
Those
mornings, he diced onions, shed not
tear, the sun
poured out on top of his head, he never
had hair
on his mind, he had onions. When he
cut, he reused
bacon packaging, drank coffee that had
sat at least
one day; two more than likely near
half-white twins
filled his kitchen. Did he think us
unpure when we
spoke english better than he? He tended
to us often
then, breathlessly executing the day’s
chore. Uttered
not that word that radio, tv filled,
but instead taught
food’s language: He kept stirring just
so, but dumped it out
hastily when finished, left sarcasm
alone long enough
to learn us: I cook for it to be eaten;
it is not art.
Piñon (The Desert)
You belong in the dry.
Your
blood
is there. You belong among those who value ground and dirt. It
is what they made
the most of when driving rain
stayed
stuck in white clouds, recirculating high above cries.
The desert grows every day and,
your
brain
is uniquely positioned to make sense of that weed that may stay, and which
must
be plucked to keep the choking out.
Allow
no time to fret over lost crops:
No amount of gnashing
your
teeth or fists
against rocks will yield ripe fruit from
the field. Only work. Remember,
once driving out, see the piñon.
Remember
the thick packs of their fruit delivered by special character now.
Once a year,
your
heart
fills with that you’ve been doing for thousands of years and
which others work
at now, muling the seed north: Remember
the shells stick
to
the meat and you have to pick the brown off the white to get inside.