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.
Before the poem, an announcement: IT’S OFFICIAL! I AM A TOAD! The site where I spent most of April, Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, invited me to be one of their circle of 20 poets. I am extremely flattered and thrilled to be included in the Garden with so many wonderful poets. Like Poets United, one must be invited to join, so that’s my BIG ANNOUNCEMENT for, like, the year! Now, on we go…
Queer.
She’s queer and
wants me to
refer to her as
gender queer,
androgynous.
I could do no less
than confess:
My generation has
problems with Queer,
hearing it said in
locker rooms and
school, in sports
and retorts spat at
the skinny boys.
‘Queer’ meant
wrong, bent.
Now it means
the whole LGBT
community.
‘Queer’ has found
immunity.
She told me that
I must embrace change,
dangerous as it seems.
She dreams of
a day when ‘Queer’
simply means
‘Not Straight.’
Apples
to
apples.
© 2013 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday and also to be found on my non-homophobic hangouts, Imaginary Garden With Real Toads and Poets United. It’s a generational thing. I remember gay pride movements in the 70s and 80s, and the cry, “We’re Here! We’re Queer! Get Over It!” Then, the word was still used as a pejorative by straights and closeted LGBTQs. The new generation, those who remember coming home from school on 9/11 like we remember coming home from school the day Pres. Kennedy was shot, have taken that word back, flipped it like a coin, say it with pride.
And I say, “Good on them!” Peace, Amy
DECLARATION OF AN ALLY OF THE QUEER COMMUNITY
Queer. That word stops
folks from my generation
dead in their tracks.
We don’t say that word.
Queer.
Always an insult, the word shouted
by football players before stuffing a
loafer-light boy into a wastebasket.
Queer.
Not right. Wrong.
In Matthew Shepard’s case, dead wrong.
Tied-to-a-bumper wrong.
Queer.
The word my daughter uses
in identifying her orientation.
She dresses boyish but loves women.
Queer.
They’re here. Your accountant, your dentist,
your kid’s teacher (not the one with the
porn on their computer, either).
Queer.
Homophobes use it to describe
boys other than their own sons, who
ship out in the Navy to prove they are “real men.”
Queer.
Mom explained it when I was five.
No graphic descriptions of sex,
just, “Uncle John loves Uncle Tony.”
It’s simple.
People are people.
Half the sexual acts straight couples do
could get them arrested in Mississippi.
Queer.
They’re here. Get over it.
They are committed couples.
They adopt kids straight couples don’t want.
They rehabilitate crack babies.
They are wonderful neighbors.
They shop; they pay taxes.
Some are slobs, some are fashionable.
Some drink wine, some drink beer.
Some go to church, some don’t.
They are human beings who are
capable of love, of compassion,
of snottiness, of loyalty.
They deserve life, liberty,
and the pursuit of happiness.
Just like you.
Just like me.
Just like everybody else.
Amen.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For ABC Wednesday, brought to you by the letter Q.
And no, that is not a picture of me. It’s me in 20 years or so!
Sharp Little Pencil 