TWO BIKERS EMBRACE ON BROAD STREET

Interpretation

Maybe, since you’re something like me,

you, too, would’ve nearly driven into oncoming traffic

for gawking at the clutch between the two men
on Broad Street, in front of the hospital,
which would not stop, each man’s face
so deeply buried in the other’s neck—these men
not, my guess, to be fucked with—squeezing through
that first, porous layer of the body into the heat beneath;
maybe you, too, would’ve nearly driven over three pedestrians as your head
swiveled to lock on their lock,
their burly fingers squeezing the air from the angels
on the backs of their denim jackets
which reminds you the million and one secrets exchanged
in nearly the last clasp between your father
and his brother, during which the hospital’s chatter and rattle
somehow fell silent in deference to the untranslatable
song between them, and just as that clasp endured through
what felt like the gradual lengthening of shadows and the emergence
of once cocooned things, and continues to this day, so, too,
did I float unaware of the 3000 lb machine
in my hands drifting through a stop light while I gawked
at their ceaseless cleave going deeper,
and deeper still, so that Broad Street from Fairmount
to the Parkway reeked of the honey-scented wind
pushed from the hummingbirds now hovering above these two men,
sweetening, somehow, the air until nectar,
yes, nectar gathered at the corners of my mouth like sun-colored spittle,
the steel vehicle now a lost memory
as I joined the fire-breasted birds in listening
to air exchanged between these two men, who are, themselves,
listening, forever, to the muscled contours of the other’s neck, all of us
still, and listening, as if we had nothing
to blow up, as if we had nothing to kill.

Immediately, Ross Gay brings the reader into the poem, declaring that we are like him. This poem operates on the level of the street, where everyone can act and watch others act equally.

He nearly drives into traffic "gawking at the clutch between two men", a comical representation of the street voyeur, as well as an insinuation that anything appearing to be homoerotic is something people may inapproprately and dangerously gawk at. That effect is exaggerated by the fact that the men are hugging outside of the hospital, likely not engaging in homoeroticism at all, but instead mourning a loved one. A slight finger is pointed at the reader and at Gay himself, for watching others on the street in a presumptuous or heteronormative way, which in this case and in many cases, would be inaccurate and dangerous (as he almost drives over three pedestrians).

The men are described as not to be fucked with, in denim jackets with angels on the back, a possible indicator of their affiliation with a motorcycle gang. They are not being violent or sterotypically tough now. Instead, they are human, connecting on a deeper level, past "that first porous layer of the body, into the heat beneath". They are so human and so representative of human men, that they stand in for Gay's father and his brother and our father and brother. They are described as ours, "your father and his brother".

The poem now enters what feels like a memory, but it is indistinguishable if it is Gay's or our own. It focuses on the "untranslatable song" between two men, a clasp that endures while things around it change, that continues to this day. This clasp is not just about what is happening at the hospital, but rather about humanity and human connection itself. When human beings are hurt, their community surrounds them in perpetual mourning and connection, one that would outlive the human being or the hospital, one that would continue through the "gradual lengthening of the shadows and the emergence of once cocooned things".

We return to the moment, with Gay's car drifting through a stop light, feeling entirely changed and with a new perspective. Maybe it was the reader alone that gawked for the wrong reasons. Gay gawked for his father and his brother, for these two men, for this moment of sweet humanity that pushed honey-scented wind from the hummingbirds. Such a visible expression of love, mourning and community sweetens those who witness it. Nectar, "yes, nectar gathered at the corners of my mouth like sun-colored spittle", showing how witnessing such humanity improves upon the viewer and removes them from the "steel vehicle" of what is at times a violent and dehumanized city, returning them to a peaceful and enduring place of listening to each other.

Everyone is listening, "as if we had nothing to blow up, as if we had nothing to kill", a line that returns to the beginning, where readers stared at traditionally masculine bikers who may be associated with violence, hugging in a way that was surprisingly emotional and possibly mistakenly viewed as homoerotic. Gay is simultaneously mistaken with the reader, and also aware of the depth human connection and love can inspire. In a city full of cold metal and violence, not all is lost, according to Gay. A moment of quiet consideration for each other may return the city to Brotherly Love.