At the Trading Post
after the Saga of the People of Laxardal
Gilli had all his wares laid out: ambers
which lock in ants and flies till Doomsday,
horns, fine clothes. I, all of us women,
are sat back shop – till a client lifts up
the curtain, picks me out with his finger.
I’m priced at three marks of silver, but
Gilli won’t sell. He brings up contractual
obligations: She never speaks, this girl:
you see, you’d be within your rights
to sue, if... In the Russian’s tent, holding
my tongue’s the last freedom left.
At last, he gives me up to the Viking
with the fork-beard. The next morning,
I’m woken at dawn. We will be sailing
north to Laxardal, he says, Iceland.
I’m rigged out in fine clothes from his chest.
after the Saga of the People of Laxardal
Gilli had all his wares laid out: ambers
which lock in ants and flies till Doomsday,
horns, fine clothes. I, all of us women,
are sat back shop – till a client lifts up
the curtain, picks me out with his finger.
I’m priced at three marks of silver, but
Gilli won’t sell. He brings up contractual
obligations: She never speaks, this girl:
you see, you’d be within your rights
to sue, if... In the Russian’s tent, holding
my tongue’s the last freedom left.
At last, he gives me up to the Viking
with the fork-beard. The next morning,
I’m woken at dawn. We will be sailing
north to Laxardal, he says, Iceland.
I’m rigged out in fine clothes from his chest.
