I sent this prose poem to a contest. Nothing. So I definitely need feedback. I suspect it's too long. Does it have too many characters in it? What else? It may need to go to a mag instead of a contest? There are people who hate prose poems. I am not one of them. So I'm open to any feedback you got. I thank you!
It Does Matter
It’s past New Year’s and Valentine’s, and we didn’t exercise
enough last year. It came on you slowly like dandelions ease
their way on the ground without a peep, then suddenly show their
yellow heads. When you walked and lifted at the gym, you could
hardly breathe after a short workout. You worried if you’d make it
to the bathroom in time. A startling thought. Your mantra changed to
“I don’t understand.” You told me about a mouse making plans and
skittering inside your ceiling and walls. Eerie. A mouse making
its own music. I watched as you started pulling cans of peaches and
beans from your pantry. That’s when the plot began to build. Then
the stench. So bad you’d cough and step outside to breathe. But you
don’t give up, do you? Not when you are close to trapping the mouse.
Once dead, you’d be able to sleep. Now, that’s a powerful payoff.
Your father would approve, right? He must have been a gentleman
and quite the problem-solver. He’s the one you talk about. His life
infected yours. Now, you are the one going back and forth to E R,
doing what he did to figure out his troubles and secure a nap. Like the
mouse in the house, your ailment lies deep inside you. It keeps your
tummy tender and your universe torn up. How it’d likely grieve your
father if he knew what you’ve been through. Oh, you had this illness
when you were a girl? Waves and shavings of memories suddenly
flood you. Doesn’t matter—your misery has ballooned. No, it does
matter. You’ve carried more than your fair share of heavy darkness.
Your sufferings and story matter. Are you aware your energy spikes
when you talk about your father, the cows, driving the tractor? I wish
I’d known you back then. But, I’ve seen plenty to say you are a
conversation and a ray of sunshine. You want another cup of tea?
It Does Matter
It’s past New Year’s and Valentine’s, and we didn’t exercise
enough last year. It came on you slowly like dandelions ease
their way on the ground without a peep, then suddenly show their
yellow heads. When you walked and lifted at the gym, you could
hardly breathe after a short workout. You worried if you’d make it
to the bathroom in time. A startling thought. Your mantra changed to
“I don’t understand.” You told me about a mouse making plans and
skittering inside your ceiling and walls. Eerie. A mouse making
its own music. I watched as you started pulling cans of peaches and
beans from your pantry. That’s when the plot began to build. Then
the stench. So bad you’d cough and step outside to breathe. But you
don’t give up, do you? Not when you are close to trapping the mouse.
Once dead, you’d be able to sleep. Now, that’s a powerful payoff.
Your father would approve, right? He must have been a gentleman
and quite the problem-solver. He’s the one you talk about. His life
infected yours. Now, you are the one going back and forth to E R,
doing what he did to figure out his troubles and secure a nap. Like the
mouse in the house, your ailment lies deep inside you. It keeps your
tummy tender and your universe torn up. How it’d likely grieve your
father if he knew what you’ve been through. Oh, you had this illness
when you were a girl? Waves and shavings of memories suddenly
flood you. Doesn’t matter—your misery has ballooned. No, it does
matter. You’ve carried more than your fair share of heavy darkness.
Your sufferings and story matter. Are you aware your energy spikes
when you talk about your father, the cows, driving the tractor? I wish
I’d known you back then. But, I’ve seen plenty to say you are a
conversation and a ray of sunshine. You want another cup of tea?