We don’t have very many contemporary poems that are curses, but it’s a genre that fascinates me. Here is one from the Paris Review daily poems:
To Her Husband for Beating Her
Through your heart’s lining let there be pressed—slanting down—
. A dagger to the bone in your chest.
. Your knee crushed, your hand smashed, may the rest
. Be gutted by the sword you possessed.
(Translated from the Middle Welsh of Gwerful Mechain by A. M Juster)
from the book WONDER & WRATH / Paul Dry Books
also appeared in Rattle