This is not a pamphlet on animal rights, this is not a sculpture of heaven. This is a narrative poem about outer space and the first monkey to grace the stars. The military broadcast shared the science with the populace, and it made U.S. better than Russia. It was war. But enough exposition, most people know Coca Cola’s imperialism; I want to talk about the monkey. Albert. He died. But in a distant pocket of the multiverse, he made it out alive, attended Dartmouth on the GI Bill, majored in Romance Languages. Settled down, had a family, wrote Italian poetry. Petrarchan sonnets about enterocytes and cosmic refraction inside pomegranates, to be exact. But he was nonetheless swallowed by the sky. Albert’s wife reported he levitated inexplicably, hovering a few half centimeters above the carpet at the most inconvenient times. It was inconvenient because while the rest of the world was just trying to get on with its business of projectiles he would have no control and terrorize the family in Latin, and even monkey. It was a side they otherwise never saw, given that everyone else in this story is a human, or a monkey-human child who did not express the phenotype for monkey language. Then one day the floating got out of hand, and at 3 A.M. his body, bound to bed by makeshift straightjacket, rushed up to break the roof’s red shake shingles. He flew, as if fastened to a pole straight down his spine, all night, into troposphere, stratosphere, and back into black shimmer of everything else and his fate. No one ever saw Albert again. Not even in that timeline, lightyears away, would space leave our hero unscathed. A motorcade featuring the President took place, given such high-ranking loss and the confusing nature of the tragedy.