 Revolutionary love looks like a portal that ever expands to increase justice. It sounds like a groundswell of voices rising from the pavement, city streets, with chalk lines in the shape of a body, like a booming voice from the altar, in the young but powerful voices that declare Black Lives Matter and they ought to matter all the time. It feels messy, sweaty, gritty, real, and holds you in its fleshy arms. No, it won't let go. It tastes like an exhale breath, an exhausted breath that finally says amen.