THE SHAPE OF THE KEYHOLE
In 1650, in Massachusetts, a woman was falsely accused of killing her friend's child. She was immediately tried and, within days, hanged. The Shape of the Keyhole examines a community's fear-driven silence and envisions the innocent woman's emotions as she awaits her execution.
This stunning book-length poem creates, from a brief account in colonial American history, an expansive collage of "dislodged sentiment, fragmented scenes, churned-up voices." Denise Bergman renders the arrest, trial, and execution of a falsely accused woman in cinematic slow motion and spare lyrical language, heightened by recurrent metaphor and contrapuntal wordplay. A rush of voices speeds up the motion before the final scene, inviting questions of guilt and culpability that are disturbingly relevant to the injustices of our own time.
—Martha Collins
Denise Bergman's compelling new collection, The Shape of the Keyhole, gives testimony to prejudices, false rumors, mutable scraps of damning evidence that wrongly condemn a woman to die by hanging. Here there is no restorative justice, only questions that singe through to a hushed past: "Why does no one ask why//she killed a child/would want to kill/ a child/that child//cold she not stop herself." In a style reminiscent of cubism and Stein, Bergman's fractured, repetitive language and succinct imagery recreate a sequence of voicings that imprint indelibly on the consciousness of the reader where "Silence snatches the best view of the finish line." The Shape of the Keyhole shines a clarifying light into the dark, unsparing nature of humanity.
—Dzvinia Orlowsky
Watch The Shape of the Keyhole book launch and conversation with Nina MacLaughlin at Porter Square Books
Read Nina MacLaughlin's review of The Shape of the Keyhole in the Boston Globe
Fear awakens fear
Slipping on a crisp of ice, stepping on a fiddlehead
Falling off the roof
Standing too tall, appearing too upright
Loving, letting loose, making mistakes unbeknownst to her
Stumbling on the street
Fear of no fear, fear of a dozen fears
Eggs in a pyramid, forgetting to cross your fingers
Being visible, invisible
Wrong place
Too late, too early
On time
What if instead
When she begs truth to join her, sit down,
pour a cup of tea,
truth pulls up a chair
Townsfolk say we’ll listen and listen,
hear, hear her,
squeeze into the spot
where judgment and reason
intersect
The nurse overtakes all that holds her hostage
yells, I was wrong, loud and in time
Women run en masse to the courtroom,
forget fear and hesitation, barge in
Truth tries on history’s spectacles,
discovers the multiple views in its reach
Multiple views, the mirage fades
Multiple voices, the loudest fades
The cymbal clash, crescendo crash
obscured by the fiddler retuning his strings
Against prediction
Nightmare loses the race