She had them copied. Read them. Passion songs.
Also the ones in which he called her whore.
Over again until could read no more
for stinging eyes, red cheeks. Avenged her wrongs.
Knew how to find him and told Caesar’s men.
Owed for a fuck and for her brother’s death.
She cried that night, then screamed til out of breath.
They slit Catullus’ throat, stabbed him again
two or three times. Then threw him off a pier
into the Tiber so he’d float down stream
a little, sink, then rot. Wet face in dream
haunted her and the soldiers. ‘Killed some queer
Just orders.’ She lives only by the name
he gave her, with his lust, love, hatred, shame.