Unworn Roses

You wouldn’t wear roses the day we bought Detroit—

the price was right for a surplus city

we thought we could fix up for the kids.

The roses, you said, were gaudy, gilding

thrown over your clutch of lilies.

It was really about the thorns

that spiked your fire and dulled the dream

you never shared in slaughtering prayers

which churched their way into sacrifice.

Prayers that rose—incense off the flames,

a scent to tickle the nostrils of God.

The roses you wouldn’t wear waited your day

and the thornless hope of restoration

when they, too, would beg for quiet aromas.