Orange Juice

First, the oranges are plucked from trees
And break off green stems, spraying blossom mist
You cannot hear their flesh strain as they're torn from their home branches
You do not see them crying
Crying zesty tears
Then the oranges are put into worn burlap sacks
Stuffed in the back of pickup trucks and train cars
Smushed up against each other and bruising like bananas
We cannot see the way their leaves shake as they're lifted out of transport
We don't hear the muffled cries because they're absorbed into the canvas
Then, the oranges are taken to a factory where they are washed and peeled 
You can't see their slices flushing red
Everything that makes them oranges suddenly flushed away
Now, they are divided up and slid into separate chambers from their pale counterparts
The humming of machines covers up strangled cries
As mother oranges are ripped from baby oranges 
And now they're isolated, and alone
Then they are crushed and diced and blended
And in their shiny new cartons, allowed inside the walls
They hold themselves together by whatever atoms still bind them
Much too tired to cry now
Too tired out to cry
Finally they're drunk
Slurped up by lucky people
And then they are forgotten
And just like that, they're gone