Poetry

Guest House

John Jeremiah Sullivan

When I leave a guest house where I’ve spent a weekend
There’s often this feeling I’ve left it dented or weakened
As if somehow the old cottage had been strong enough
For hundreds and hundreds of souls but not me or mine
After this it would be a spent place and begin its decline
Even crossing the floor I can tell some sag has deepened
I work harder at cleaning than any professional might
Hands and knees at the baseboards, toothbrush to grout
Secret places that cleaners have shied from for centuries
Gloomy infertile gardens praying never to be found
Where the grime turns into a sort of tar, black and hairy
Especially under the oven, for whatever reason, is scary
You have to rub furiously with something wet to make it
Surrender adhesion molecule by brave revolting molecule
At home wait thickening dust and cracks. I am indifferent

John Jeremiah Sullivan is a writer for The New York Times Magazine. His work appears there and in The New Yorker, The Paris Review, and other publications. He lives in Wilmington, North Carolina, where he co-founded the non-profit research initiative Third Person Project.
Originally published:
March 1, 2022

Featured

Essays

Communalism in the Veld

Rethinking property in South Africa
Glen Retief

Fiction

The Front House

Cord Jefferson

Books

The Sublime Modes of Sheila Heti

The novelist as philosopher
Noreen Khawaja

You Might Also Like

Poetry

Reverb

Rae Armantrout

Poetry

Here I Go

Rae Armantrout

Poetry

Race Point

Cynthia Zarin

Subscribe

New perspectives, enduring writing. Subscribe to The Yale Review and receive four beautiful print issues per year.
Subscribe