Vertigo by Martha Ronk

"One wrong move is all it takes"

When I told my story all over again, it no longer sounded
plausible, even to me. Perhaps she did know what
she was talking about, perhaps I had been to St. Louis and seen
the painting of the androgynous Christ, and the painful
underpinnings of her life were perhaps clear to me although what
seemed more the case was that I had no way of
understanding the full import of the directions clearly written out
in pencil on lined yellow paper,
and yet in going over them again in my head the turmoil of
the night came back, the detail of the Victorian carpet,
palm fronds twisted on a maroon field,
and back stairs twisting up to where I had never been.