Performed by Val Cole

Get to know the poet:

www.deidrepowell.com

1) What is the theme of your poem?

The poem explores justice, advocacy, and compassion — giving voice to the child whose story is often buried beneath legal arguments and adult conflicts. It reflects both the fragility and resilience of children caught between systems meant to protect them.

2) What motivated you to write this poem?

As a family lawyer and mediator, I have witnessed how children's voices can sometimes be lost in the process. Intimate partner violence affects children deeply and leaves lasting effects. This poem was born from a desire to speak for them — to remind the world that behind every case file is a child longing to be heard.

3) How long have you been writing poetry?

I have been writing poetry since I was about ten years old, but I began publishing recently. Poetry has become my second vocation, a bridge between law, faith, and love.

4) If you could have dinner with one person (dead or alive), who would that be?

Maya Angelou. Her wisdom, courage, and cadence taught me that truth spoken with grace can move nations.

5) What influenced you to submit to have your poetry performed by a professional actor?

I'm a writer, not an actor. I prefer to hear other people's interpretations of my work. I wanted to hear the poem interpreted through another voice , to see how its emotional truths would resonate beyond the page. The idea of transforming advocacy into performance felt both healing and necessary.

6) Do you write other works? scripts? Short Stories? Etc.?

Yes. In addition to poetry, I write children's books and short stories. I have a few upcoming poetry collections such as Echoes from the Unseen and Who Else Cries in Silence. These poems examine global injustice and faith, while my children's book Tell Me a Story, Grandma celebrates intergenerational love, faith, and storytelling.

7) What is your passion in life?

My passion is giving voice to the unseen, whether through advocacy in the courtroom or witness through poetry. I believe words can heal, illuminate, and restore our shared humanity. My passion is also leaving a lasting legacy of love, faith, and justice for my family.

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POEM:

Justice,
before you rule,
Please hear me—
not as counsel,
but as one who has stood in that midnight kitchen
through her words,
through her trembling hands,
fighting for Pêpê’s best interest—
a child the law claims to protect,

yet leaves trembling.
It is not enough
when his hand explodes against her mother’s face,
the sound sharp as a rifle crack,
making the glass in its frame shiver.
It is not enough
when her cheek blooms red,
then fades too fast for the lens to catch.

Pêpê—her mother’s pet name,
whispered like a shield.
At night she lies rigid in her bed,
listening to her mother’s muffled whimpering,
each sob a small surrender.
She learns too early that comfort is dangerous,
that silence is armour.
I hear her in the pauses her mother cannot fill,
in the way fear wraps itself around every word.

She is six.
Only six—
and already her eyes know how to measure a room,
track his every move,
clutch her mother’s skirt as though it’s the only thing
anchoring her to safety.
She memorises the path to the door,
ready to run before she’s learned to ride a bike.

Do you know what it is
to argue a case with your throat closing?
To know that “best interest of the child”
is not a theory,
not a balance sheet,
but a warm bed free from dread—
and still watch the law lean to “access”
and “parental rights”
as if they outweigh
a child’s right to breathe without fear?

He does not feed her.
He does not clothe her.
He does not keep her warm.
Yet he claims the right to hold her,
to call it love,
to shape her into a silence that will last her life.

The mother is shamed as bitter if she speaks,
while he—
who punched a hole beside her face—
walks away smiling.
And Pêpê learns to fold herself into small spaces,
to call fear normal,
to believe this is what families are.

Justice—
I see her years from now,
laughing in a sunlit kitchen,
her footsteps light,
her nights free from dread.
Your choice can make that real.

You are not deaf
to her small voice asking:

“Do I have to go?”

Your gavel can crush—
or shield.

Choose her.

Carve a future
where Pêpê wakes to mornings of peace,
where only her cereal crunches.

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