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The Spirit in Me

She comes from Virginia west to ancestral acres, a jagged country of rock outcroppings and mountains gutted and scarred. She rests in deep shade at the mansion her great-grandfather built, three stories of dungeonlike stone topped by a copper roof which glints in noon sun. She comes with sin. Her blue car passes my church, a board-and-batten building hammered together by my father, the roughness of new lumber first against his hands and then against my own. As a boy I labor with him evenings, carrying buckets of water from the stream which wrinkles over mossy rocks. I hoe the mortar, my blade furrowing the gray. As a young man I hammer on the new roof after a north wind curls off the old tin. In the beginning there are brethren to help. "She's back," they say each summer. "She's returned." "Cast your eyes down," I say. "She lets us fish in her lake," LeRoy Ackers says. He is an electrician at the mine. I've seen him with sparks falling around him like a fiery rain. "In Beelzebub's pond," I say. She wears green, yellow, and lavender, her summer dresses bright around pampered flesh of her neck and arms. She has green, yellow, and lavender shoes, and perhaps underneath she wears those colors too, if she wears anything at all. When she drives into our dusty town, she passes the granite courthouse and iron cannon splotched by pigeons. Men stand on