Julie Buffaloe-Yoder, our guest blogger today

It is a pleasure to be at Glenda Beall’s site this week. She is an excellent poet and writer, and her work touches a chord deep in my soul. I can’t wait to read her chapbook. I have been excited to meet Glenda and other Carolina poets and writers since moving back to my state. It is a place that is rich with many different cultures and stories.
When I first took my broke-handle suitcase and headed off into the world, family and friends reminded me to always remember my home. “Don’t forget where you come from,” they said. No, that’s not a typo. They say come from, which is beautifully poetic to my ears. It’s also great advice.

I would never want to forget. In many ways, I don’t think I ever left. The people in this state are a big part of who I am. We were formed by its landscape. Every mountain, every ocean wave, every red clay rock. It all sings my name.

Don’t Forget Where You Come From
Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

You drop little bits of it
wherever you go.

It’s under your fingernails.
It curls through your veins.
It shines behind your eyes
like blue ridge mountains.

That place remains
in every sway
of salt marsh reeds

embedded deeply
between your teeth
in each piece of sand.

It leaves a permanent taste
of red clay on your tongue
scales on your arms
a fish house in your bones
a curving river in your spine.

It formed your voice, your beat,
the way you move your hands.

You have the rhythm of wind,
old men on benches, the rock
of a boat under hard tar heels.

Its summer thunder
flashes valleys
in your synapses

through blue-gray roots
thick twisted woods,
the swirl of currents
over mossy rocks.

It sets itself up
like an old car on blocks.
It’s in your cupboards
hanging like a mullet net.

You breathe it, eat it,
wash it in your hair.

It follows you
through city streets,
creates a wake
with each footstep

a heartbeat, a shimmering
pink light on the horizon.

It will be your last thought
before dying, your last breath

cornbread in a fat black pan
a guitar whispering
your name
on thick cricket nights

a light on a front porch
a full moon that wraps
a gold rope
around your soul.

Never forget
how you were
created in
its image.

Never try
to leave it
by the side
of the road.

It will be there,
forever

patiently waiting
for you to get
where you are going.