by Martín Espada

    Niggerlips was the high school name for me.

    So called by Douglas

    the car mechanic， with green tattoos¹

    on each forearm，

    and the choir² of round pink faces

    that grinned deliciously

    from the back row of classrooms，

    droned over by teachers

    checking attendance too slowly.

    Douglas would brag³

    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 bleach⁴

    his stubborn copper⁵ 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

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