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.