I’ve been trying to come up with something to say about the death of Andrea Gibson for almost a month, and words continue to fail me. It’s strange, mourning the death of someone you didn’t know very well – but felt like you did. The amount of time I physically spent with Andrea added up to less than a day; the amount of time I spent reading and listening to their work is incalculable.

About fifteen years ago, a friend told me about this poet that they enjoyed – said, she felt about Andrea Gibson the way we felt about Ellis (the singer). Let’s just say that’s a successful endorsement. And so, I heard Gibson read their poetry for the first time – and I never looked back. Over the years, I read everything they published, saw them perform I don’t even know how many times, and have taught (and will continue to teach) some of their poems when I have the opportunity to teach poetry (the students always end up asking for more of their poems).

And then in 2019, I had the chance to work closely with them at UntitledTown (a book and author festival my city ran until the pandemic put an end to that). Gibson would be reading their work at an establishment in the Broadway district – which, rewind twenty-six years, was the first queer space I had ever entered. At the time, most of the establishment was an 18+ dance club; there was a 21+ bar connected to it. Helpful when most other queer spaces (at the time, a handful of bars around the city) were all 21+ (the drinking age in my state).

I told you that story to tell you this one – during their performance, Gibson recited their poem Orlando, which is about the massacre at the queer Florida dance club. Before reading this poem, Gibson told a story about how at the age of twenty-one, they sat outside of their first ever gay bar, scared to go in because they were worried of being seen…or shot. They did eventually make it in. I’ve heard this poem read several times. But hearing it read here, in the old West, the first queer space I ever stepped foot into – well, it’s difficult to put into words the ways this broke me open.

They also recited their poem “Letter to My Dog Exploring the Human Condition,” during which they invited the subject, their pup Squash, onto stage with them. I was going to link to a recording of the Pulse poem, but this one is more lighthearted, and we could all use a little more lightness at times like this.

A few years ago, Andrea openly shared that they had been diagnosed with ovarian cancer. They chose to share their experience, and watching how this diagnosis made them fall even more in love with life was astonishing and inspiring. And maybe inevitable when one takes a look at their work and their life.

They did manage to enter remission for a while, but the cancer returned, and no matter what they threw at it, this time, it persisted. This is why it was not surprising when their death was announced on July 14, though its impact was still greater than I had anticipated. A gut punch for sure. Watching the outpouring of love from their friends, family, and fans, though, has allowed the experience to feel less isolating.

The strangest thing when an artist you admire passes is the acceptance that no new work will be coming. You hold in your possession everything they will ever create.

But Andrea Gibson, in their infinite wisdom, prepared for this, too. (You can read about their poem, from Meg, read the text, and watch a video of it on Andrea Gibson’s Substack: “When Death Comes to Visit.“)

Their partner/wife Megan Falley (also a poet) is continuing to write and post on Gibson’s Substack, and I encourage you to continue on with them.

You can find their books everywhere (though I do recommend using BookShop.Org if buying online; you can request your local bookshop to order them if they don’t carry them already). You can listen to their work via their YouTube channel.