Niggerlips

　　 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.