Martín Espada
Two POEMS
The Critic's Tongue Did Not Sparkle With the Diamond Stickpin of Wit
The critic sat at the head of the table, a whale spouting the spray of jazz
history or the American novel from his blowhole, and everyone at the table
leaned closer like tourists tipping the boat at a whale watch. He boomed out
quotations from the masterpieces of learned men, and everyone at the table
fought the urge to rise and applaud his genius grant from the foundation.
His tongue sparkled with the diamond stickpin of wit from tongues gone
to dust, and everyone at the table chuckled on command, nodding to each
other as they jotted down the words on the cocktail napkins in their heads.
He recited name after name like the announcer at the ballpark broadcasts
the starting lineup, and everyone at the table salivated for the hot dogs.
I stood in the doorway, inscrutable. The critic joined me in the doorway
to smoke a cigarette. He wanted to know my name, the meaning of my name,
where I got my name. Espada means sword in Spanish, I said. Puerto Rican
from Brooklyn. The critic’s tongue did not sparkle with the diamond stickpin
of wit: Puerto Ricans? You’ve got a drug problem. Here’s how you fix it. Deport
the drug dealers. Deport the addicts. Deport anyone who won’t talk to the police.
I told him: We’re all citizens. We can’t be deported to Puerto Rico. The critic
spoke as if to instruct a man learning English: Deport them all anyway.
The critic sat back down, floating a word balloon from his favorite French
intellectual, and everyone at the table buzzed as if they understood him.
Love Song of the Atheist Marionette
Some say God carved me from a tree, sawed off branches for my spindly
arms and painted this face on me. Some say God yanks my mouth open like
a fisherman yanks open the mouth of a fish, shuffles my feet to dance even
when there is no music, and will snip my strings the day He wants a new toy.
I say God is not my puppet master. God does not make me jump at nothing.
God does not make me rattle my fist at the empty heavens. God does not
make my mouth snap open to sing if I have no songs in my hollow head.
God does not make me love you. Forget the street preachers: God is not love.
This is love: on the night someone, not God, snipped my strings and I collapsed
in a tangle of wood, you caught me before I hit the floor. You called puppet 911.
Martín Espada has published more than twenty books as a poet, translator, editor, and essayist. Known as “the Latino poet of his generation,” Espada has received the Paterson Prize, the American Book Award, the International Latino Book Award, the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize, as well as fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the Guggenheim Foundation, PEN, and the Academy of American Poets. In his early career, Espada served as a tenant lawyer for Greater Boston’s Latino community. He is now a Professor of Poetry at the University of Massachusetts Amherst. His most recent book, Floaters (Norton 2021), received the 2021 National Book Award in poetry.