We—Detroit girls, Daughters of Motown—
knew before we saw the bronze casket
that Aretha would be dressed down;
some—Non-believers, Outsiders—
called it frivolous: two-day
viewing; eight-hour long service;
four outfit changes, each dress
more elaborate than the last.
Beautiful, beautiful gowns—accessorized
from jewels to pointed heels. I half-
expect her to break out a side eye
belt out a hymn to remind us
who the Queen is. There is,
of course, no such performance,
though we all huddle like crows,
waiting to see if she still looks
like herself. There is a protocol to this,
a right way to send
someone back to the lap of God.
Wearing their Sunday best.
So fancy they can be
mistaken for a bride.
Copyright © 2025 by Brittany Rogers. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on April 9, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
