Poetry by Isis Hanna

             ​Paul VanDerWerf CC




​on the car ride home I am quiet

I dig a shark’s tooth
the size of my thumb out 
of the sand before the waves 
can wash it away. the saltwater 
drops sting my eyes and my feet
freeze in the early morning
water, but the sun is starting
to warm us up with its orange
streaks that stretch from behind
the long clouds on the horizon.
I run a long way down the beach
to show you my find. shell
fragments dig into my heels
as I run. I found the tooth using 
the ways you taught me as a kid. 
you’ll be proud. some sharks leave
their offspring right after they are born,
nothing but their instincts to protect them.
sometimes I wish you would leave me
on this beach to raise myself. I want 
to live by my own rules, make my 
home among the tides and sleep 
in the sand dunes. we need to learn
the art of fossilization, how to pile
and press the sediments of each
good day onto the bad ones
and forgive. instead, we toss them
onto this beach, covered haphazardly
by sand and shells, and we dig them up
with our hands every once in a while.
on the way home I’ll clutch
my treasure, serrated edges digging 
into my skin. I remind myself
that you are proud of me as you
berate me, shaking the sand off 
of an old argument you dug up
while we were there. I am already
rehearsing my apology in my head.
I don’t know why I am always 
the one who says I’m sorry when you 
are the one with all those teeth.




​
reflections on the water and on family

the moon is about 384,000 kilometers
from earth. 9.6 times around
the world, or nearly 120 round 
trips to each of our houses. that’s 
almost unbelievable, considering 
when we look up into the night sky, 
it seems as if a particularly tall 
building or especially skilled pilot 
could scratch the surface. and it’s 
the same distance no matter where you are
on earth. when four people look up 
at the moon they are seeing past those 
same many miles and looking 
at the same gray monolith. our moon, god 
of the night skies. controller of the tides. it pulls
the waves that we splashed through on the dark
beach ten minutes from my house. there were 
four of us. half had never seen the beach 
at night before. the moon moved the water
for us while we used its borrowed light 
to find shark’s teeth in the freezing sand. 
our lanterns barely light the beach. we search
anyways, collecting shells in cheap
plastic buckets. tomorrow they will be packed 
into suitcases and our little group will return 
to our corners of the country. we will hold each other 
tightly while the adults exchange hurried, 
cold goodbyes. for every thirteen times 
the moon makes its way around the earth, our 
family’s orbit falls more off-kilter and every 
goodbye feels more like forever. twice a year, the shadow
cast by the earth eclipses the moonlight and for up
to two hours, we are completely blind. in our 
collective fear of the dark, the whole family 
will join hands. we’ll guide each other when 
the time comes. for now, we can see
and us four kids band together despite
our parents’ differences. before departure, we all slip 
out onto the balcony of the beach condo. cold 
concrete stings my feet and I think “I should 
have worn socks” so I don’t have to think “I don’t
want things to fall apart.”it is high tide down below us. 
the sky is pale blue and the moon is beginning to show 
its silhouette as it climbs.



Isis Hanna is a 9th grade student studying creative writing at Charleston County School of the Arts. She is 15 years old. Her poems tend to include themes of childhood and family.