Mission Santa Barbara

by Thea Sullivan

Inside the tiny room, an iron cross, a chamber pot,
a cot of leather stretched over wood. Its fragrant skin

would creak, bowing slightly under my weight
after another long day of arching desire. I dream this life—

this musk of tallow and incense rising from dark adobe
walls, a hush of footsteps rushing to prayer.

Voices like bells tolling their long echoes.
Wooden beads worn smooth in my hands.