Misunderstanding Dumas, or Why I’ll Never Go to Mars

They say you shouldn’t

snack ’n’ read.

Dill and chocolate

nougat, diametric.

I won’t even attempt

it here.

There are pickles

in the jar

the size of swordfish.

Phallic has no

place within this poem.

Neither fruits de mer.

The Musketeers

were a Triune

rapiѐre.

Just the thought

will drive me mad at

Dollar Junk.

There’s a reason for

confections by the cash.

The fourth is but a third

extraneous

wheel—poor ol’ dear

D’Artagnan—

made it to the novel

but when the candy came

to call, Athos/Porthos/Aramis

dulled his blade.

As a boy I

snagged a twig—

swashbuckler

run amok—

fillings in my teeth,

a heart the breath of air,

feathers in the pillows

on the couch.

Of course that came

much later, when we

fumbled in our kisses

in the basement.

It’s why tête-à-tête

cannot ménage à trois.

And if three have lost their

way then what is quatre?

I’ve saved the silver

wrapper to this

day. I loved you

best I could.

Andreas Gripp

June 17, 2026

RF / Getty Images