Cena Ljubezni

by Miriam H. Monarres

Madre L always says:

Me cuesta mucho. It costs me a lot.

She knows that everything in life

has a price

and not always one you pay in coins.

Me cuesta mucho.

She says it when she climbs stairs,

when she answers the phone

to news she already guessed.

When she talks about her husband

and the way her friends act.

When I ask, ¿Que te cuesta?, what does it cost you?,

she places her hand on her chest,

as if the price of the pain is too high

to be named.

In my mother tongue, there’s no word

for that kind of weight. We say

prenesti, to carry,

as if we are mules

dragging silence uphill.