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