The Virginia G. Piper
Center for Creative Writing

Burns, Demetrius. "Rosemarie Dombrowski: Phoenix's Poet Laureate." JAVA Magazine, Apr 3, 2017.

Dombrowski is what you might call an anthological poet. Her field work: womanhood and raising a child with autism. "Auto-ethnography is the most authentic form of history," Dombrowski says. "I’m a fervent believer that history is written from the inside. I don’t like the old ethnocentric paradigm. That leads to erasure. We know that as members of the disability community. We have to tell our own stories. When you bring all those stories together, then you have a real community."

Davis Barr, Karen. "The Book of Emergencies--Exploring Autism Through Poetry." Raising Arizona Kids, Apr 16, 2015.

Rosemarie Dombrowski, PhD, wrote The Book of Emergencies to “capture the imagistic, linguistic and emotional discombobulation of the world of autism,” according to her book’s preface. The collection is lyrical, poignant, often wrenching but ultimately uplifting as this passionate, expressive mother—for whom words are life itself—seeks connection with a son who must fight daily to find his way out of silence.

Dombrowski, Rosemarie. "Two Fictions." Spilled Milk Magazine. 

She steers the car toward the intersection but doesn't make the turn. It's like a mateorological spell, sevent-six degrees and dropping, perfect for the moon-roof. She's listening to the Eagles, driving toward the buttes--more specifically, to the spot where she saw the Phoenix lights, the place that the Papago considered sacred. She has a bundle of dried sage in her bag.

---. "Infidelity." Stonecoast Review.

You come home on a Monday and I tell you
that I’m in love with the decomposing bird
that’s been tucked under the hibiscus for months.
I make you look at its sad little sack-of-bones,
the fuzz trapped inside the marrow
that’s melting into the soil.

---. "The Audubon Guide to Relationships, Plates No. 142 and 147." Split Rock Review.

(American Sparrow Hawk)

There is want, and there is not knowing
what to want—
the forested remains of a carcass
still warm from the kill,
the hand over the mouth,
the sharpened switch across the back of your thigh.