First purchase

I want to remember it, like my first kiss,
my inaugural pet, my number one noun.
To know who guided me,
who put what denomination in which hand.
I like to think I bought a loaf of bread,
something substantial,
rather than candy or a plastic toy.
To recall it would be useful,
because if the first guy who kissed you
tried to stick his tongue down your throat
and you weren’t ready, and you didn’t like him,
if your first animal was a white rat
and your mother took him away because
you hung him upside-down by the tail,
if the first rule you learned was fear
and after that it seemed nothing else could find you,
then at least some things make sense.
And I’m sure if I knew what went wrong that day,
what misinterpretation of the coin
was forged and minted in my forming brain,
I would keep my tongue in my head,
sit tight on my rump, and finally understand
why I’m always broke.