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