Tibia and femur

Your moons are rose-scented and poverty-stricken
You mauled her lithe and little body with your plump big body.
And she crushes your mind with her boyish laugh and demanding hands,
that remind you of stories about Moorish Spain read in a carcass-silent library at noon

Her arms are like rope. your hands are like shovels.
Her legs are powerful like 10,000 frogs.
She opens herself scissor-fast and swims around your arms which are anchors.
Mermaids, oh why do they flock to dark and rusty anchors?
And why do they kiss the sunken ships with their velvet mouths?