Brownfield Superfunds

Devananda Vargas

I am the ghost of the host you infiltrated that summer. From the depths of the moist garden level
basement room, you creeped in my bed. The entomopathogenic fungus zombied eight-legged
disciples, and mossy green, knobby backed, croaking advisors, and that indigo blue inked
space shaman Eddy tried to warn me, but I was high on low altitude life. The people said I was
from away, asked if I was a climate refugee, showed me lightning bugs, and took me to the
highest peak in another state over, the oxygen is richer down there; I was willing to risk it.

I am the host of the ghost you bequeathed in the womb. I thought I was responsible, but that’s
on you, and now that I know, all I want is to create more distance.

I am the ghost of the host you infiltrated that summer. From the depths of the moist garden level
basement room, you seeped in the barren studs of the bathroom, the gold coast California gurl
tried raising the barn, but I was having too much fun. I threw bath bombs and swam with the
mermaids, and skinny dipped at early dawn, in the muggy afternoon, and under starry night
skies with the sirens of the Kennebec and Carabassett, danced with the wild women in the
kitchen and the shala, wandered through the graveyard–music room–attic; I easily ignored you.

I am the host of the ghost you bequeathed in the womb. I thought it would be easy, but that’s not
true, and now that I know, all I can do is take pills.

I am the ghost of the host you infiltrated that summer. From the depths of the moist garden level
basement room, you weeped from the boiler room into mine, the Tennessee basketball player
getting layed up was my final warning, but I had already fallen in love. I swept through all hours
of the night with the ghosts, pulled the mattress downstairs–across the hall–upstairs–into the
viewing room, oiled my body ritualistically in the morning, gave buddha prasad, and grabbed
iced coffee with coffee ice cubes and blueberry syrup at Anni’s each afternoon; I had big dreams
and a bright future.

I am the host of the ghost you bequeathed in the womb. I thought it was normal, but that’s
unhealthy, and now that I know, all I do is more of that restorative therapy.

I am the ghost of the host you infiltrated that summer. From the depths of the moist garden level
basement room, you betrayed me when I said no more, and she said then go, I had never set
boundaries before. Out west I purged with a chemical peel, detoxed with an owl reset,
eradicated with countless tic-tacs, blasted red-blue light, steamed out my yoni with the five
sisters, wrapped liquid gold of the gods over as I layed down and nearly drowned in the
decades of uncried tears. Purified me of all the shame I didn’t know I was carrying.

I am the host of the ghost you bequeathed in the womb. I thought I was doing fine, but that’s
bypassing, and now that I know, all I need is to write it out.

The host and the ghost and me.

This piece is part of a collection that will be published on the blog through April and May 2025 leading to the release of Bombay Gin Literary Journal Issue #49, in the strangler fig.