PINK PEARLS - alexandra isacson


alexandra isacson

We left Carmel by the sea in Cali and drove north all day through the vineyards and the redwoods into Humboldt County. We rolled past the creamery and cattle in their pastures to our Victorian B&B. In our mansion suite, we laughed at the bidet, spurting like a fountain. The ceiling mirror reflected us in our pink clawfoot bathtub framed by flaming fireplace and fainting couch. I suds you up, dropped the lavender soap, and groped for it in the bubbles. We split the light and floated. I wanted to go back with you to the ocean.

Our spiraling poster bed was four feet off the floor, spread with cool satin, steps leading to a Princess and the Pea fantasy. Another mirror sparked the ceiling, swirling around us. To balance ourselves, we drove down to the beer joint in town and drank with the locals.

We were lucky to make it up the steps to bed.

We woke in the naked morning canopied by fuchsia in the gardens.

We breakfasted on French toast laced with edible flowers and baked apples served on Depression glass. After, we bicycled on a winding country road on the forest fringe. The wind swept through the weathered barns and farmhouses and the horses and sheep grazing on the hillsides. We stopped to watch deer eating berries and wildflowers. After pedaling five miles, we happened upon the sea. We ditched our bicycles and walked barefoot on the shore.

Slowly, with your hands, you opened me.

Pink pearls. You said. Your tongue an ocean rush.

Alexandra Isacson
Bitter Angel
Amy Gerstler