Andrea Gibson, the magnetic performance poet whose verses became lifelines for queer youth and a comfort to the terminally ill, has died at 49. Known for peeling back life’s rawest layers — identity, love, and dying — Gibson passed away surrounded by loved ones, four ex-girlfriends, and their three dogs at home in Boulder, Colorado.
Their wife, poet Megan Falley, announced the death on Monday. Gibson had spent the last four years battling terminal ovarian cancer, a journey chronicled in the upcoming documentary Come See Me in the Good Light, set to stream on Apple TV+ this fall. The film, a Sundance Festival Favorite Award winner, captures the intimate beauty of their relationship, creative resilience, and Gibson’s refusal to go quietly.
Their final years were anything but quiet. Gibson’s poetry confronted the inevitability of death with reverence and rebellion, turning cancer into what they called “medicine.” Their verse offered an anchor for queer people navigating identity, families grappling with mortality, and anyone teetering on the edge of despair. In one of their last poems, “Love Letter from the Afterlife,” they wrote, “When I left my body, I did not go away… I am more here than I ever was before.”
A Queer Icon Who Didn’t Flinch
For many, Gibson was more than a poet — they were a lighthouse. Fans across the LGBTQ spectrum said their work gave them permission to exist, to be angry, to be joyful, to be exactly in-between. “Andrea saved my life,” said one trans man, whose mother wept beside him on the phone after the news broke. Their poetry bridged generations, sparking understanding and healing where silence once reigned.
Linda Williams Stay, a mother from Utah, said Gibson’s work helped her support her trans son. After attending a Gibson reading together in San Francisco, their shared love for the poet deepened into a shared understanding. Years later, when Stay faced her own cancer diagnosis, Gibson’s poems again offered solace. “They gave so much hope to queer kids in small communities,” she said. “It was truly life-changing.”
Born in Maine and long rooted in Colorado, Gibson served as the state’s poet laureate for two years. Their books — You Better Be Lightning, Take Me With You, Lord of the Butterflies — became staples in queer homes and college campuses alike. Their lines weren’t just words — they were weapons, lullabies, confessions.
In an old essay, Gibson described themselves as genderqueer, happiest “not here or there — but in-between.” It was that in-betweenness that made them essential. They lived out loud for those who couldn’t.
A Legacy Etched in Verse
Comedian Tig Notaro, who executive produced the documentary, shared that the final days of Gibson’s life were gutting — and transcendent. “It was the most beautiful experience,” she said, calling their passing a masterclass in human connection.
Gibson’s work wasn’t just poetry; it was protest, balm, and resurrection. They taught us that dying is not the opposite of living, but its fiercest continuation. They wrote: “Please let me remember,” and we will.
Their life was poetry. Their death was poetry. And for every queer kid clutching a copy of Lord of the Butterflies, Andrea Gibson still is.