On Easter, after time with the family, I dig in the garden, tend flowers, sew seeds, but no one would mistake me for a gardener. Our plot teems with mold and ladybirds, ladybirds. Snails, two copulating in my palm. And broken bricks and broken glass, wire and bone, a chipped ink bottle. The long lower jaw of something, a something with long teeth pointed like thorns. Where I shovel through a tumble of orange vertebrae and long bones, we put two box plants in and christen them Sparky and Fluffy.