Roman curses

Nobody knows what Cicero’s gardener whistled
to his figs and olives, what the consul’s young wife

hummed to herself while slaves combed beeswax
and perfumed oils from Carthage into her hair.

Did bawdy odes to Octavia’s backside
(Ah, Maximus, she is plump as an Iberian mare)

flow from the taverns Ostia, Massilia, Aquae Sulis?
The Romans, leaving behind no music,

choked their sacred springs with curses.
Tiny, jagged metal tongues folded over

and over upon themselves, rolled over
and over like olive pits in vinegar mouths.

Oh goddess, may the thief who stole
my best gloves lose his mind and his eyes.

Minerva sighs at these razorblade grievances,
sulfurous prayers etched in bile, she is bored,

would prefer to be getting songs about figs,
olives, emperors, Octavia’s ample bottom,

instead of junkmail grudges piling up,
centuries-deep, at her patient doorstep

Natasha Gauthier is a Canadian poet living in Cardiff. She won First Prize in the 2024-25 Poetry Wales Awards, and won the 2025 Borzello Trust/New Welsh Review Prize for poetry. Her debut collection will be published by Parthian next year.