Trauma doesn't care about time or rules. It's a relentless force, a ghost that haunts the most mundane moments. In this powerful poem, a veteran sits at a hockey game, seeking the controlled chaos of the ice, but finds his own internal world bleeding into the present. A child's innocent bumping motion triggers a flood of memories from a past assault, showing how the mind can be a battlefield where every sense is a potential weapon against a fragile sense of safety. This poem is a raw and unsparing look at how the past can become an uninvited guest, blurring the lines between what is happening now and what happened then.
Ain’t Nobody Trying to Rape You a the Hockey Game
I parked a couple blocks away. I was early and hungry. I wanted to see a fight.
Blood on the ice. Teeth in the net.
I found my seat The child in front of me. Maybe 9 or 10 Rocked back and forth Front and back Nonstop Bumping in to me Even after I shifted away
The kid wasn’t the problem in my head
Kids are kids. Kids do kid things.
And I’ve rocked like that Because I was overwhelmed And entombed in hospital wards
I know uncontainable irritability
The fly I can’t squash Is the memory of my own screaming.
My screams open fleshy doors That bleed like elevators
Only an echo. Only a dream.
It’s not happening right now.
Nonetheless, my body is somewhere else.
In a bathroom Shitting
Wondering what I’m gonna have for lunch.
Here’s what I told my exposure therapist After I closed my eyes:
“I entered the bathroom. On my left are the sinks to my right are stalls. Further in there are urinals. I choose the furthest stall. The toilet seat in the stall closest to the door was stained yellow. I saw the broken lock on the stall door. I sent several emails to my boss about lack of hand soap and toilet paper.
The bathroom door opened. Someone entered. A figure moved towards the sink. I could see a form reflected in the floor tile. I heard fabric rubbing against fabric. The person approached my stall door. I saw a penis in the tile being masturbated. I heard grunts.
What did he say, asks the therapist? “Hey baby”
I’m not getting raped today.
I stood to fight. Me or him Him or me
I’m not getting raped today I’m not getting raped today I’m not getting raped today
Could you describe his penis? Asked the therapist.
I’m not describing some dude’s penis.
What happened next?
I stood to defend myself. And he left. Ask quickly as he jerked his cock. Poof. Gone. Premature.
My hands were balled into fist Trembling or shaking Rage and terror Codependent
I informed my boss and asked for safety. She escorted me to the second floor.
Leaving me alone With a pen And two incident reports.
I cried. I hurt. I’m not safe.
I heard a howling scream from the first floor. It sound like an animal being killed.
Nope Nope Nope
I gotta get the fuck out of here.
I called my therapist, “Dude I need to talk, Something happened, Can I come in?”
Yes of course
I’m not getting raped today.
I stood. Informed my boss of my intentions to go to the Vet Center. I was escorted to my car.
My fists and everything Still trembling A heard someone Who didn’t give a shit ask,
“William are you ok to drive?
I said yes
I was not ok to drive. I’m not ok. I’m not safe.
I’m not getting raped today.
When I arrived at my therapist’s office I read a text and listened voicemail from my boss providing me with the next day off.
On that day off at noon. My boss called to tell me my services were no longer required. I was no longer needed to prevent veterans from killing themselves. Fired at will. I started throwing up and could not stop. I called 911...
This is when my therapist stops me and said “ok that was good William.” Let’s start from the beginning. Try to visualize it. I know this is hard. You are doing good.
I paused. My eyes still closed. I cried. I’m not being raped today. I’m not getting raped today.
Trauma doesn’t give a shit about time or its rules.
Trauma runs it’s own meat grinder. Sifting the good memories through the tragic. Till there’s nothing left but
Blood on the ice Teeth in the net
Eyes still crying. Screams still echoing. War cry or death rattle?
I started from the beginning
I entered the bathroom...
Meanwhile, I’m at a hockey game trying to keep an eye out for the best spills and fights. And juggling memories of an almost rape, and the soullessness that followed.
You must be a stupid mother fucker to get fired on your day off, Craig!
I tell myself, “Dude you are at a hockey game, ain’t body trying to rape you.”
Again the kid bumps into me
Again And Again And Again
The father apologized.
The kid is just a kid And has no clue What he is bumping Up against
Blood on the ice Teeth in the net
Interpretation
This poem operates as a diagram of flows, where trauma and memory exist as desiring-machines that clash with the societal apparatuses of everyday life. The speaker's mind is a "body-without-organs," a chaotic assemblage of past and present that resists any coherent, Oedipal organization. The bumping of the child, a mundane event, becomes a trigger that opens "fleshy doors," unleashing a torrent of fragmented memories. The desire for "Blood on the ice. Teeth in the net" is a death rattle, a destructive desire to see the chaos of his inner world externalized and contained within the boundaries of a sport.
The trauma narrative is not linear; it is an eruption, a violent flow that overwhelms the speaker's conscious mind. The therapy session, a societal apparatus designed to regulate and contain these flows, is shown to be impotent. The therapist's questions are an attempt to impose order, to "visualize" and quantify, but the speaker's desiring-machine rebels. The refusal to "describe some dude's penis" is a rejection of the system's attempt to normalize and categorize his trauma. The final act of being fired is the ultimate expression of this conflict: the veteran's trauma is an uncontainable flow that the system must expel to maintain its own smooth functioning. The veteran is a failed product, an experiment that must be terminated.
The poem concludes with the horrifying realization that the trauma has become a "meat grinder," a machine that relentlessly sifts all memories—both good and tragic—until nothing is left but the raw, brutal essence of the event. The final bump from the child reveals the tragic truth: the veteran's body is a terrain upon which these unseen forces are constantly colliding. The father apologizes for his son, but he can't apologize for the unseen, for what his son is bumping up against—the raw, fragmented, and unending chaos of a mind where the past is always an instant away from bleeding onto the ice.
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