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.