Nicole Bird

POETRY

“The Light,” read by Nicole Bird.

The Light

I heard singing last night
Our Father, who art in Heaven
so far away it sounded
like a whistle in my ear
coaxing me awake.

No, they weren’t singing.

Hallowed be thy name,
Hollywood.

I shuffled to the window
saw candles burning
in their hands,
a circle of people surrounding
an above ground pool.

Thy kingdom come
Thy will be done

In the middle of the night in Hollywood,
my fellow citizens would demand
immediate cessation of all faith-related activities,
belief far too clamorous for the denizens—
housed and unhoused alike.

A smiling woman with curly hair
approached the water.
After a deep breath,
two men helped her
submerge
until she disappeared
and all I heard was
a splash—

Give us this day
Our daily bread

tears melded with moisture on her face.
A pastor held her,
She looked new
or maybe just wet.

And forgive us our trespasses

This pool must be a gag.
An art installation, the brainchild
of a cheekily named improv troupe, soon
they would yell “and scene,”
disband, taking their pool set design
back to Sherman Oaks.

But no, they were looking for something—
whatever that woman got
that made her smile
look like light.

“Revenge of the Night Baptizers,” read by Nicole Bird.

Revenge of the Night Baptizers

There’s a reason it never rains in Hollywood:
it didn’t ask to be clean.

I watch them from my brick-fringed window.
My empty stomach growls
loud enough to dwarf their prayers,
having last been fed at lunch
with a seven-dollar In-n-Out combo.

Whoever dwells in the shelter
Of the Most High
Will rest in the shadow of
The Almighty.

I stomp back to bed,
contemplate filing a noise complaint.
Bemoan their words,
their corporeal etching of prayer
in this lone clearing covered
with patchy grass off Hollywood Boulevard,
beg them to stop, plead with them—
I can’t sleep through your faith.

I will say of the Lord, He
Is my refuge and my
Fortress
My God, in whom I trust.

Water sloshes,
someone being immersed and made new.
I turn back to the couch,
too tired to get into bed,
too achy to accept comfort.

I’m left with wind whistling over a hollow bottle,
nothing to do except withstand their prayers.

Nicole’s work has appeared in the Angel City Review, Monadnock Underground, and Granfalloon, among others. Her writing has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and she’s currently revising a poetry collection about Los Angeles. You can read more about Nicole at nicolebirdthewriter.com.

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