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8 o n A t H e M e B y M o y s H e K U L B A K “His thirteenth wife, who passed for a witch in Lithuania.” —Moyshe Kulbak, trans. from the yiddish by Leonard Wolf His fourth finger, with wedding rings stacked to the knuckle. His father’s name, which passed for horseshit in Warsaw. His dry spell, when he daily flicked off the river. His first sin, which even god was impressed with. His tenth boss, who fired and fired him nightly. His eighteenth winter, when he looked in the eyes of his sweetheart. His nineteenth winter, when he kicked snow in the eyes of his sweetheart. His twentieth winter, when he broke branches and made himself antlers. His fourth bar, where he got drunk and took match to his papers. His third fear: he’d get drunk, forget his name, and not have his papers. His old street, where he pounded on every door frame. His last bet, where he knocked then slumped down the door frame. The moon—which he hated for many good reasons— the moon, which he turned from and took twenty paces. His shadow that he spit on till it shined. ...

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