The trunk

I search for a willow path,
and laughter of sand under my thirsty feet
and the brown odor of cinnamon
in the old wood of the stove,
and the voices crackling in the hearth
and in the patio of the incandescent moon
the drunk sunflowers in flames
and a clatter of spurs growing in the night,
and a certain smell of tobacco, of wet leather, of wild
alcohol disturbing my sleep,
and the fear encrusted in my chest
and the trunk lying in wait in the twilight
of that forbidden room,
of irate shouts --
the rickety trunk in whose belly were saved
the terrible bones of the gringo grandfather.