Remembering Andrea Gibson, The Poet Who Touched My Heart

“Andrea would want you to know that they got their wish. In the end, their heart was covered in stretch marks.”  This was the ending of a heartbreakingly beautiful message shared out on social media on Monday, July 14, notifying the world that beloved queer and nonbinary poet Andrea Gibson had passed away. As a longtime fan of their work, I followed Andrea’s journey online through the cancer diagnosis in 2021. Like so many, I hoped that they would beat this disease. Andrea’s final message was a reminder that this, like so much of life, isn’t black or white. Andrea didn’t lose a battle to cancer; in fact, the announcement of their passing centered the message “Whenever I leave this world, whether it’s sixty years from now, I wouldn’t want anyone to say I lost some battle. I’ll be a winner that day.” 

Related: Andrea Gibson, Queer Poet And Colorado Laureate, Dies At 49

As a writer and a human, I have so admired the way that they would write about their journey with cancer, with the same tender vulnerability they wrote about gender, sex, love, and family. I am a chronic optimist. Even in the darkest of times, I always took comfort in the way that their stories found ways to center joy, love, and gratitude even in the hardest moments life can throw at you. Andrea’s work gave voice to a generation of writers, poets, weirdos, and tender-hearted queers. Andrea was always authentically, vulnerably queer and achieved incredible success in their 49 years. Andrea was the poet laureate of Colorado, author of poetry collections, and the creator of seven spoken word albums. 

Andrea’s work explored not just personal identity and their journey of gender and sexuality, but also the reality of walking through the world as a visible queer person. Andrea’s poetry touched on big themes from hate crimes and broken hearts, to one of my favorite simple joys, the love of a very good dog.

I first discovered Andrea’s poetry in the early 2000s, around the time their first album, Bullets & Windchimes, was released. I saw them perform every chance I got when they toured through small queer and feminist venues in Portland, Oregon. My friends and I would blast their albums on punk house stereo systems and in beat-up cars driving late at night (confession, we burned the same CD because we couldn’t all afford copies). I would sit in the backseat, letting their words wash over me. Andrea Gibson’s poetry has been a touchpoint for a generation of tender queers who find joy in the magic that each day brings, and joy through heartache.  Like so many fans, I have leaned on Andrea’s brilliant and poignant words during some of my darkest days. Their poems and stories feel like a comforting hug today as their leaving this earthly space sinks in, and I realize there will be no new albums, books, or poems.

Andrea fought a four-year battle with ovarian cancer and shared much of their journey through their social media and poetry. They found joy and wonder even in painful and difficult days, inspiring countless others to also search for the good in difficult circumstances. Andrea “died in their home surrounded by their wife, Meg, four ex-girlfriends, their mother and father, dozens of friends, and their three beloved dogs.” I can’t think of a more fittingly loving and peaceful way for them to exit this lifetime. 

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The announcement on social media about their passing expressed so perfectly what anyone familiar with Andrea’s work knows intimately: “though Andrea desperately wished to have lived a longer life, they could not have possibly lived a fuller one.” As devastating as it was to learn about their passing, I was struck by the power of this statement. Who could want more than to die knowing that? The world is darker without their light, and the retaliation is that there will be no more books, poems, or albums coming from them. I’ll be watching the moon, which was so often featured in their poetry, and thinking about the light their stories brought to my life and the lives of so many. 

In April, Andrea recorded their last interview, reading a new poem, “Dying is the opposite of leaving…” Without question, their words are the most powerful way to remember their light and voice. Rest in poetry, brave storyteller. Thank you for the unapologetic queer joy, the hopes and the dreams, the metaphors and the tender bravery. Life is short, heartbreakingly so. May we take the lessons that Andrea gifted us within their work and apply them to our own lives. May we all carry their hope, light, and joy into every interaction. May we love our dogs harder, hold our lovers a bit tighter, see the beauty in humanity, and most of all be brave enough to be just a little bit softer.