it’s 1998 and i’m standing 

on the shore of san clemente 

state beach at seven pm as 

the sand squishes up between 

my toes like brown sugar 

and my mother, young 

and nervously surveying the

surf for                 jellyfish, sits at my side

“god is good,” she croons 

one of her sweet refrains 

i turn back to her and 

the sunset reflects off 

her caramel, fifty-cent 

goodwill sunglasses 

it reminds me of another

                        of her sayings:

there are no accidents. 

but i was an accident

like how a scoop too much of 

baking soda in cookie dough 

turns the whole batch sour 

i turn back to the sea,

                       saying nothing

“god is good,” she evangelizes, 

as nearby seagulls squawk and eat 

washed up kelp, rotting flotsam, 

plastic shit that holds 

bottles together

i take a running step forward 

she says something else

                        but the tide splash 

                        and flap of feathers 

                        drown everything out

A.T. Ross (he/him) is a queer artist from Elizabethtown, Kentucky. His work explores themes of mental health, sexuality, and gender identity from the perspective of someone who navigated the difficulties of growing up queer in the religious southern United States.