Our women revise their bodies in the afterlife, into insects and birds. Here, my mother’s sister has chosen a cricket: colorless and leggy. She’s always around, silky legs buzzing from beneath the bed or in the ceiling’s corner. And the cat is always smelling her out, chewing her dead. I begin the post-cat-murder ritual by collecting her legs and joints, leading to the spot where her thorax sprawls ripped from her abdomen. Beside her halved body, wings shrivel like rinds, rotting at the edges. When she was dying, her lungs rattled. She said she looked a hundred years old the last time we showed the mirror her face. Now, she looks biblical, her horned body alien and fragile. I stare into her bulbous eyes as I screw her capped head back on her body. I try to push her spiked legs back into their small sockets. I am trying to look at her without flinching the way I did next to her bed, watching half-dead eyes crave mercy. I want to straighten her wing, flatten it back on her body like an opaque sheet, then deliver her into the trash whole. Until next time, I want to say, my grandmother crawling up my shoulder blade, her sister’s beak peering over the watering can: their long wings, their many legs, out there waiting for me with little ears tucked in kneecaps.