Saturday Matinee

Saturday Matinee


Gene Autry galloping hard on his pony,
in black and white, the ground and bushes gray,
toward gray mountains under a gray sky,
where white clouds drift, hooves pounding
in the small theater as I sat forward
in my seat, my heart in my mouth with envy
with longing for freedom, for Gene Autry,
the boy beside me sliding his hand over
for mine, the odor of popcorn in place

of sagebrush, and I saw myself inside
that movie, black hat on my head while
I rushed after him, my pony dapple-gray,
my hair long and blown back by the wind,
galloping so hard but upright western style,
a real cowgirl, and the hand in the theater
like some kind of insect I was brushing away,

my body wanting to rush after my mind—
away from that kid in his button-down shirt,
away from the white clapboard houses,
the dark deciduous forest on the edges
of town, the asphalt, the street lights,
and my father forbidding me to go
to the movie while I sobbed, sobbed
for love of Gene Autry, for love
of the wide open west, of horses
and galloping, for love, for love.

Copyright © Mary Crow
—first published in I Have Tasted the Apple
BOA Editions, Ltd., 1996.

—read by Garrison Keillor-The Writer's Almanac
National Public Radio, 1996
Posted over on Mary Crow's Blog