The End of The Advent “I am eating the days of the month, all the days at one time”, says Rebecca. Her patience has ended: she flung wide the doors of the weeks still to come. The suns go down hot. She washes them down with the liquor of evening. If I had known she was an eater of days I’d have begged her to take all the rest of the year. Eat all the seasons, the cicada spring, the summer and fall when the world could not sleep for the scratching of chicken-foot houses. In the woods with the corpse-flowers blooming, their talons dug deep in the dirt. When they clawed up a snail, they cackled, flapped open their windows with pride and made sure that people came running. They let the worms stay undisturbed. In the spring is the hatching of insects. (This year, I bit down on a chocolate but my tongue touched the flesh of a fat and white maggot instead, and I swear I could taste its small hairs.) One day in the spring there were bees and they covered the city in...