You have to believe them—or is it believe in them— because they have centuries of science and you have only the last twenty-four hours the fall a sensation (or was it an illusion) hip smashing— bones you have taken for granted— against the granite floor to rely on for/as evidence Belief is half-grammar (for/as) half dream Science is half-hope (as/for) half hypothesizing The nurse whose name I am not sure I heard (correctly) says as they wheel you from the curtained cubicle in the Anesthesiology Suite toward the metal—not granite—slab in the Surgery Theater (act as if you are not terrified) In the Philippines (I am going home soon) we recite healing prayers. Trust me. You’re going to be fine. I am reciting a prayer for you. I don’t believe in prayers I don’t understand science I have only grammar and Gabriel’s (too prophetic to be wrong) tender grasp: subject verb object Let me recite: I thank you Sima Rabinowitz lives in the Bronx, New York. Her poems have appeared recently in Writers Resist and The CDCPoetry Project. She is the author of The Jewish Fake Book (Elixir Press, 2004) and Murmuration (New Michigan Press, 2006).