Brunch in my friend’s back garden
We sipped mimosas
Lingered over lemon scones
Stuffing our faces, coffee strongstiffsteaming
The scent of patchouli streaming
A particularly choice strain of weed had us laughing so hard we did spit takes
And then Jim – or was it Tim? They were called The Ims
Interchangeable, flannel clad and fluid
One of the Ims opened his NY Times and chimed in,
“Have you –“ coughing, choking on a long puff–
“Have you read this bit? Rare cancer seen in 41 homosexuals
They’re calling it Gay-Related Immune Deficiency”
SILENCE.
You could almost hear that joint burn, the paper curl
As the days went by, when the wildfire started
O, the withering, the wilting, as the burgundy wine stains blotched their clear skin
Wheezing and weary
The gay men who had once joined the Black queens at the Queer revolt at Stonewell
Their anger fueled the fire
They who had marched at the first Pride Parade a year later
The sashay and shimmy down to the Christopher Street Pier
with sequins and boas, in bare-chested glory – plus a nun on roller skates
They were now angry young men with angry young friends, those of us privileged to play in their sandbox
Gay men who staged die-ins in the aisles of intolerant churches
Who died, one by one, then dozen by dozen and on and on
An endless emergency that left them empty, save for handfuls of pills, washed down with Ensure to ensure nutrition
My Jeffrey, a lithe and limber dancer
now rail thin and rasping and God, he died in their bed
because politicians said, “Virus? What virus?”
and Reagan wouldn’t say AIDS
and clergy said SINNERS
And parents disowned them
Through it all, the forced smiles of young men hobbled by hatred and that damned disease – our first pandemic
And those who stood by held hands, we witnessed wills, we hoped, we prayed
Today, as we celebrate Pride
We remember how the light in their eyes faded, their very souls flickering
We remember it all
We raise our voices because we have to
So the straight, cisgender, and privileged hear us
We call out the powerful who forget the rest of us
So that trans kids know they are treasured in their truth
So Black queens and Queers know white people give a damn
We call it out because we must
We raise our voices because we still can
© 2026 Amer Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
I wrote this to the prompt HISTORY at What’s Going On. As Pride Month draws to a close, as I recently came out as nonbinary and changed my chosen name to Amer (my nickname growing up), I wanted to convey the helplessness we felt in NYC during those first days of AIDS (or GRID, which my Jeffrey called “a truly classless acronym”). By the following summer, the pandemic had carved a gaping, bleeding gash through the heart of New York City. A whole generation of gay male artists were lost. It was in many ways the death of Broadway, from a creative standpoint. And yes, so many more types of folks were lost, but I wanted to put forth my personal experience. PRIDE is for celebrating, but we must never forget.
Sharp Little Pencil 