The woman does not move; and her clock is dosed with amnesia. Something scarred these hands into coma. The peeping bird shuts-off its’ back-‘forth routine, and the mother, in her complacent gown under the arch of the bathroom door, is helpless while she becomes consumed by a force greater than herself. It makes her baby’s mouths oval lips silenced, before it’s attempted cry. The toddler’s pruned fingers twisted the cold water off, allowed hot water to spill; and now the boiling water tightens on the skin that lies prey-pink rawness enveloping. He is a statue that burns, he is feeling, he sees out of blue eyes, while she is embraced with a tortured stare. Frozen fingers are in limbo inside rescue and this eternal pause, cementing her feet to the stance they were left in. Baby’s mouth is opened without the screech; time quit in the seconds that lived before a wail and attempt.