by Martín Espada

    Niggerlips was the high school name for me.

    So called by Douglas

    the car mechanic， with green tattoos

    on each forearm，

    and the choir of round pink faces

    that grinned deliciously

    from the back row of classrooms，

    droned over by teachers

    checking attendance too slowly.

    Douglas would brag

    about cruising his car

    near sidewalks of black children

    to point an unloaded gun，

    to scare niggers

    like crows off a tree，

    he'd say.

    My great-grandfather Luis

    was un negrito too，

    a shoemaker in the coffee hills

    of Puerto Rico， 1900.

    The family called him a secret

    and kept no photograph.

    My father remembers

    the childhood white powder

    that failed to bleach

    his stubborn copper skin，

    and the family says

    he is still a fly in milk.

    So Niggerlips has the mouth

    of his great-grandfather，

    the song he must have sung

    as he pounded the leather and nails，

    the heat that courses through copper，

    the stubbornness of a fly in milk，

    and all you have， Douglas，

    is that unloaded gun.